


GOL HAH DOV

by Corentine



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't think I've ever used that tag before but I feel it's justified for this story, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, It's Miraak ofc it's slow burn, Long, M/M, Miraak Lives (Elder Scrolls), Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, There's smut but it's quite a long way in, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 129,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corentine/pseuds/Corentine
Summary: Bound by fate, a thrall-turned-Dragonborn meets a Dragonborn-turned-trophy.(AKA my take on a Dovahkin/Miraak romance while staying true to Miraak's character, with soulmates themes. Loosely follows the events of the game).
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak
Comments: 386
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story comes to you because I’ve been playing too much Skyrim lately (pandemic escapism amirite). I went to Solstheim waaay too early for some other quests, met Miraak, fell in love with Miraak. The First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn? That’s some fated mates material if ever I’ve seen it.
> 
> So, here’s my take on what could have been if we were allowed to redeem Miraak instead of just killing him (which with liberal use of mods, you can). The events of the story happened in-game in some fashion or another, though later chapters will likely have more divergence. I had some nice emergent story-telling which I’ll detail at the end of each chapter if anyone is interested. 
> 
> I’ll try to gloss over anything that isn’t Miraak related. Bear with me through chapter one while I set the story up and then let’s give that tentacle-masked man the epic romance he deserves.

**\- O L**

**H A -**

**D - V**

-

The words, incomprehensible, rattle around his head like the last rumbles of a great thunderstorm. Then, much like after a storm has passed, the air suddenly feels clearer, sharper. A sludgy fog he didn’t even realise he was in clears from his mind and he blinks, confused.

The first thing he sees is his own hands.

They are lean and long-fingered, the skin is golden in hue. There are a few nicks and the smudge of chemical burns here and there. There is a gold band on his right-hand ring finger that he doesn’t recognise with a bright-hued sapphire set into the centre. It hums slightly against his skin with magical power.

He doesn’t know what it is or how he got it. That question leads to another, and another, and he realises with a creeping sort of dread, that he has a _lot_ of them.

_What is this? How did I get it? What am I doing here? Where is here?_

_Who am I?_

He doesn’t know, he realises with a heavy swallow. He thinks that he’s a he. He dimly recalls that he is an elf. For the life of him though, he doesn’t know his name and when he tries to think too hard about it his head throbs with a low, dull ache.

As for where… a glance around tells him he’s in a cave-turned-den. Stood in front of a table, he appears to have been half way through gutting a fish to cook. The place doesn’t feel like home. As a matter of fact there is the definite sense that he shouldn’t be here. He hears the slow drips of water and whistle of distant wind in the cave, but then something else catches his ears – the clinking of glass bottles, bubbling of liquid. Intermittently, the unintelligible muttering of a male voice.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise at once. He turns, slowly, and sees across the confined space another figure, wearing hooded black robes and stooping over an alchemy station. Back to him, so they clearly don’t consider him any threat.

They are a threat to him, though.

He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he just knows. It’s in the prickle on his nape and tingle in his teeth. His heart flutters in his chest like a captive bird against his ribcage. He is in danger. He needs to leave, and he’s fairly certain that this man will stop him. No weapons to hand. The only thing he sees is a woodsman axe resting atop a nearby pile of firewood.

He moves slowly and quietly, as though the man turning to look at him would petrify him in place. Holds his breath as he picks up the axe, hearing the muted scrape of the metal against the pile of wood. It feels too heavy, like he’s holding his own fate in his hands. He is, maybe. He holds it half behind his back, out of immediate view. Clenched in his right hand, the same one wearing the ring which still hums against his skin.

He walks up behind the robed figure. He’s taller than they are, and his looming shadow catches their eye. They turn, revealing the face of a human man, sallow and unshaven. His eyes glint with cunning and unkindness. The elf has no true name for him, but the one that immediately comes to mind is _Master._ He’s clammy with fear. This man has hurt him before, more than once. He doesn’t remember _what_ but he knows, unquestionably, that this is true.

The man gives him a confused look. “What are you doing? I didn’t ask you to come over here.”

His fingers tremble around the haft of the axe, tucked away behind his back. “I would like to leave,” he whispers. The sound of his own voice catches him off-guard. It sounds like he hasn’t spoken for months, maybe years.

Realisation streaks across the man’s face in an instant. He throws a hand up, lightning crackling at his fingertips, to put his servant back down-

He doesn’t let him. His right arm swings around and buries the axe in the man’s shoulder. Poetry dictated that this should be the killing blow, but it’s a duller axe than he thought and leaves his captor still alive, howling in pain and shock. The counterattack of magic tears in his skin, makes him cry out in pain, so he wrenches the axe back with a bloody sound and tries again. Again, again, again.

Somewhere between all the sounds of wet metal and panicked shouting, the man gasps out, blood gushing from his lips: “ _Chrysanthe-_ ”

And then he is still. A slump of pale skin, black robes and bright, bright red on the floor.

The elf stands above him breathing raggedly. It’s over. It’s over. He’s free.

-

He doesn’t know how long he stands there over the body, eyes wild, axe in hand. Eventually it slips from his hands and lands on the floor with a heavy sound that startles him from his daze.

Once he calmed enough he starts looking around the cave, hoping to find some clue as to who he is and why he’s here, but he has no such luck. There’s no convenient journal of machinations he can read, nothing that identifies the man he’s just killed. He doesn’t even have a name for the man other than _Master_ and he has no name for himself at all. _Chrysanthe_ , the man gasped before he died. It’s not a word he recognises, so it must be a name. It might not even be his, necessarily. It doesn’t feel familiar, but then nothing does.

The only thing he can ascertain is that he served the dead man, and not of his own volition - he recalls the word _thrall,_ though he doesn’t know where that knowledge comes from. The magic has wiped his mind clean and left only fragments of what might have happened to him. When he studies Mas- the man’s face, now frozen in its death-grimace he feels a very visceral sort of fear associated with acts he cannot remember.

He glances around the cave again. A very minimal set up: a table for eating, some drawers, an alchemy station, a bed. One bed.

Looking at it makes his hands tremble. He needs to get out of here.

After being trapped in that dark cave, and more importantly in that mind-fog of his, the outside world is overwhelming to the senses. The sunlight hurts his eyes in the best possible way, and the birdsong leaves him awestruck. He wobbles unsurely through the forested landscape until he finds a river to drink from and wash in. It’s shockingly cold, but that makes it feel like he’s cleansing not only his skin but his soul.

His reflection catches him off-guard. He is a male elf, the word _altmer_ springs to mind. His skin and hair are gold, and again something in him tells him this is typical for his kind. His eyes are blue, which he thinks might be unusual. He is youngish, but looks older for the dark circles under his eyes and gaunt set to his cheeks.

Over the next few days his mind continues to piece things back together in a drip-feed of information. He is in _Skyrim_ , he knows this because the weather is cold and the wildlife is aggressive. He is in _the Rift_ , he knows this because of the shapes of the trees and the abundance of Frostbite spiders, which he’d much rather do without. He has retained knowledge if not memories. It makes him only marginally less of a lost lamb, but it’s better than nothing.

Eventually he finds civilisation in the form of Shor’s Stone. Someone there asks his name and he says _Chrysanthe,_ for lack of anything else to give.

-

Later he ends up at Riften, which has more people in one place than he’s ever seen, not that this is saying much. The time spent away from other people has left him shy, happier to skirt around a crowd than move through it.

Clearing out the spider-riddled mine at Shor’s Stone sets him on a path of Fixing Problems For Money. He ends up with a lot of problems to fix because people take one look at him and just… ask for things, or unsubtly mention something until he sighs and asks if he can be of any help. He assumes that his arms and armour (all of which he salvaged from the bodies of bandits) paint him as an adventurer. He hadn’t considered himself such, but it’s not like he has anything better to do. There’s no family or friends for him to seek out; the cave held no clues to his past the first time he looked and he hasn’t the stomach to go back and search more thoroughly.

The only thing he has to go by is the ring. He initially worried that the ring is what bound him in the first place, but after studying up and finding an arcane enchanter to play with, he realises it’s quite the opposite; etched into the metal are tiny runes of _magic resistance._ Magic such as, say, mind control. It’s very likely putting the ring on is what broke the mage’s hold over him and set him free.

Just to be sure he shows it to Bersi at the Pawned Prawn too. “Yep, that’s a Ring of Nullification - magic resistance, that is.” The nord comments, squinting at the ring. Chrysanthe hasn’t taken it off so he’s appraising it from a distance. “Truth be told it’s a weak enchantment for a sapphire ring - would’ve been better spent on fortifying a school of magic. I’ll give you 400 gold for it.”

Chrysanthe withdraws his hand at once as though burned. He can’t fathom taking the ring off, never mind selling it. “No - no thank you,” he says, “I’ll keep it for now.”

Bersi shrugs, “Suit yourself, but you won’t get a much better price for it.”

 _This one is worth my life_ , he doesn’t say aloud.

It leaves him with more questions than answers, however. How did it get on his finger? The mage that enthralled him certainly didn’t put it there. Either Chrysanthe was wearing a mundane ring that became magical overnight (which he doubts) or he found and put it on himself. How would he have been able to do that, if he was under thralldom? He wouldn’t have had the will to free himself, surely. What made him put it on in the first place?

The ring tells him nothing. He wonders if it has any significance to him beyond the freedom it granted him - despite being cast from gold it doesn’t strike him as a wedding ring, too study and practical. He can hammer something like this out himself at the forge, there’s no finesse to its craftsmanship. The sapphire in the centre is pretty but it’s not the best cut. To say this ring literally changed his fate, it’s something of an anticlimax. Nonetheless he keeps it snug on his finger and resolves to never remove it.

-

Riften keeps him busy for a time but only with errands – fetch this, deliver that. After a while he comes to realise that Riften’s real problems run far too deep for him to solve, bound up in the Black-Briars and a Jarl that is either corrupt or a total idiot, he’s not sure which is worse. So, he moves on. To Ivarstead, circling around to Kynesgrove, then northward to the next city, Windhelm.

Somewhere between the bitter cold, oppressive stone walls and aggressive guards, he’s soon to declare Windhelm the Worst Place Ever. He’s pieced together that altmer are associated with Thalmor and that Thalmor are bad, but it’s one thing to get the odd mistrustful stare and another to get a cold shoulder like the one Windhelm gives him. He’s out as soon as he gets the chance, opting to catch a carriage to Dawnstar and sleep on the way rather than linger.

Dawnstar is a bit of a mess but it’s a _fixable_ mess, so he’s quick to take Erandur up on his plan to save the town from Vaermina. When the priest offers to travel with him afterwards he actually says yes, when he’s shunned all offers of company before. It’s useful to have someone who knows a little magic too; he’s been sticking to hitting stuff with a sword up until this point.

“I’d be surprised if you had no aptitude for magic at all, given your blood,” Erandur points out. “I’m no wizard, but I can teach you what I know. You could become a spellblade, perhaps.”

So they practice together. He can’t do destruction, or perhaps _won’t_ is a better term - Erandur can easily call on flame or frost but for Chrysanthe it feels sluggish and reluctant. One of his earliest known memories was being shocked, so he assumes that’s a formative experience thing and gives up after a while. Restoration magic is easier to coax, though he would put that down to the teacher - it’s times like this he can believe Erandur is truly blessed by Mara, seeing how easily the healing magic flows from his fingertips. With a lot of patience and kindness he teaches Chrysanthe to do the same.

Later he tries the other schools but none of them stick the same way restoration does. Alteration and illusion provide utility, but he doesn’t find much other use for them. Conjuration is useful for summoning weapons (particularly after losing his umpteeth sword to another bloody draugr and that weird shouting thing they do _argh_ , so annoying) but binding atronachs and daedra makes him uneasy. He’s decent at alchemy, but he’d rather gather ingredients than mix them. The clinking of glass bottles sets his teeth on edge; he knows why it does and why it’s irrational, but it doesn’t ease the feeling he gets. He hears about the College of Winterhold as a place of learning but it feels too academic for him, and he has no other business that takes him towards Winterhold, so he never enlists.

Erandur is his constant companion for quite a while. Eventually their string of minor good deeds earns Chrysanthe enough fame to receive a letter from the Jarl of Falkreath asking for help. He goes, pleased to be called for something greater than an errand, and is subsequently disappointed when an errand turns out to be exactly what the Jarl wants of him - cleaning up some under-the-table deal he’d made with local bandits, for that matter. He does it because he may as well rid the world of a few more bandits, but the whole thing leaves him with a rather dim view of the Jarl. Actually between Riften, Dawnstar and Falkreath, he’s yet to come across a Jarl that he actually respects.

If one good thing comes of Falkreath though it’s that he meets a quirky but affable imperial scholar by the name of _Lucien Flavius_ who asks if he can tag along. He’s hopeless in a fight, at least until Chrysanthe shows him the basics, but has the personality of sunshine in a bottle. Chrysanthe is quiet and reticent; Erandur doesn’t mind, happy to stay in companionable silence. Lucien though will talk about anything and everything, and seems pleased to have someone who doesn’t shush him. Chry never, ever shushes him. The chatter keeps him out of his own head, and the sometimes morose thoughts he sinks into when nothing is distracting him. Since the day he found himself freed he has wandered, aimless, from the north of Skyrim to the south and then back again. Something about this isn’t sitting right with him, but he isn’t sure what else to do.

Then he stumbles across Helgen, having heard rumours of a town fire and hoping to offer some assistance there that might actually make him feel useful, for a change. He finds a smoking ruin, and a black dragon that flies overhead and blocks out the very sun. He runs to Riverwood to warn them. He runs to Whiterun to warn _them._ He runs to Bleak Falls Barrow and back again for that stone tablet on dragons, and then he runs outside the Whiterun gates when he hears of a dragon attacking _right now_ and then-

He goes, most abruptly, from having no purpose in his life to having far too much of it. _Dragonborn._ How can he possibly be Dragonborn? Not only is he not a nord, but he’s a mer; not only is he a mer, but he’s an altmer, the race most reviled by Skyrim’s conservative inhabitants. He lacks the loftiness of his peers (there is an unfortunate truth in the stereotype, he has found) but his ears are pointed and his skin is gold. Yet the Greybeards welcome his arrival with open arms and make no mention of his race.

As a matter of fact he must deliberately bring it up with Arngeir , who only smiles and gently tells him, “I do not believe we have welcomed a Dovahkin of mer blood before, no, but it makes little difference. Remember you are Dragonborn first, altmer second.”

“I…” he fidgets, twisting his sapphire-set ring round and around his finger. “I was a slave,” he blurts out. The words have been bubbling in his chest since he found out that he was - more. Was this. He has to tell the Greybeards where he came from before they find out for themselves and think him a pretender. “Of a sorts. I freed myself. But I’m not - I didn’t come from any heroic background.”

“And what would you call a heroic background? If you were born into a noble house, or with a lineage of adventurers before you?” Arngeir shakes his head. “You have come from a place of sorrow. It pains me to hear it, but I believe it will make you a better Dovahkin. And remember that it matters not what you were but what you are, and what you will be.”

-

“For what it’s worth I think he’s right,” Erandur tells him later. “The whole Dragonborn-first-mer-second feels especially true, for you. You are - and I mean this with the greatest possible respect - unlike any other altmer I’ve met.”

“As in, not a snob,” Lucien chimes in helpfully.

“I noticed,” is his dry response, before taking on a more serious tone. “The altmer thing I can reconcile, more or less. It’s more that I used to be… well, you know.” They do, in fact, both know. He doesn’t go around telling everyone what happened to him but for the two travelling so closely with him it had to come up eventually. Especially with his lack of non-recent memories and deep dislike of dark mages that they’ve come across. “How on Nirn does a Dragonborn end up as a thrall?”

Lucien taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well you weren’t a Dragonborn back then. That time at Whiterun was the first Dragon-borning you’ve done.” A pause. “Dragon-borning? Dragonbirth?”

Erandur and Chrysanthe both wince in equal measure, “Please Lucien, never call it _Dragonbirth_ again.” Before the scholar can protest, he hurries to move the subject along: “I suppose you’re right. The Greybeards called out then as well, so the whole… soul-absorbing… _thing_ , must not have happened before then. So I wasn’t some great hero, before I was a thrall.”

It’s comforting, in a way, to think he was some nobody before being thrall’ed, because there’s less of a precedent for him to live up to. On the other hand that means that he, complete nobody, is suddenly the Dragonborn, one true dragonslayer, chosen of Akatosh, hero of the ages and the various other epithets the Greybeards had spoken of. He’s not any of those things, not even close.

“That being said,” Erandur murmurs, “Do you think being Dragonborn is why you were able to shake off the mage’s control?”

“Well no, I think it was this,” he waggles the hand with the ring still on it. He hasn’t taken it off despite coming across objectively better enchanted rings. He knows it’s deeply irrational, but a part of him feels like if he takes it off he’ll be under the mage’s control again, or he’ll be susceptible to the next mage who tries to enthrall him. There’s probably no truth to it but he always keeps it on just the same, even when he’s wearing gauntlets. “It somehow found its way onto my finger and gave me enough magical resistance to shake off the spell.”

“How’d it get on your finger though?” Lucien ponders. “Brief lapse in the spell gave you enough free will to put it on?”

“Divine intervention,” Erandur says more confidently.

“They say there are two types of people in this world,” Chrysanthe smiles wryly. He’s not sure any Divines are looking out for him - not even Akatosh - but he has to admit it’s a remarkable set of coincidences that placed that ring in his path. “Honestly, it could be either of those. I’ll never know.”

-

He’s barely finished the descent from High Hrothgar and back into Ivarstead when he is approached by three figures in strange garb, faces obscured by masks that look almost like draconic skulls. They ask if he is Dragonborn. When he mumbles an unsure affirmative, they attack. When he kills them (or rather, defends himself while Ivarstead’s guards kill them) he finds a note on one of the bodies.

_Kill the False Dragonborn known as Chrysanthe before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

The term _False Dragonborn_ catches his eye, but even moreso is the name _Miraak._ It looks… familiar. Not so much as a written word but when he says it out loud, it feels like he’s heard the name somewhere before…

He ought to see if the Greybeards know anything but - and he admits this is the shallowest of reasons - he’s just descended and he really doesn’t want to climb the seven thousand steps again. If these dragon cultists keep appearing then he’ll look into it, but for now he has bigger problems to worry about, namely his new fate.

As luck would have it he does not run into anymore cultists for a very long time, and so he more or less forgets about the whole thing. Every so often however he finds the note at the bottom of his pack when he’s clearing out all the junk he carries around. The word _Miraak_ always catches his eye and he frowns, wonders why it feels like de ja vu. He just can’t place it though. Inevitably he folds it up and re-stashes it again instead of just throwing it away like he ought to.

-

Neither Erandur nor Lucien change how they treat him after this latest revelation, possibly because they both knew Chrysanthe as hopeless wanderer first, figure of legend second. He’s grateful, most days it feels as though the mantle of hero sits ill across his shoulders. More than once he considers if anyone would mind the Dragonborn just… opting for a life of farming or something instead. Would some Divine come and scold him for not living up to his potential? Or would danger continuously seek him out like those strange cultists did?

For now though he does what he’s told. Goes to find the horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Sighs very loudly when he finds it stolen from the tomb. Says his farewells to Erandur in Dawnstar rather than march the poor priest all the way back to Riverwood again. Erandur is initially dubious about him keeping only Lucien, who is more scholar than mage, but Chry assures him he’s at the point where he can take care of himself and his chatty companion if need be. His reasons for parting ways are twofold though: his newly-learned Shout, Unrelenting Force, is very useful indeed, but he’s more than a little worried about accidentally bowling Erandur over along with their foes. Lucien on the other hand tends to hide behind him, which is probably the safest place to be.

So he takes Lucien only and goes back to Riverwood and meets Delphine who looks at him, his tall frame and his pointed ears with an expression of utmost incredulity. “I have to say, you’re not what I was expecting. I thought you’d be… shorter.”

She has a very piercing stare; he finds it difficult not to wither under it. “I’m Dragonborn first, altmer second,” he says quietly.

“I never said anything about you being altmer,” she points out, but she and he both know she was thinking it. “As for being Dragonborn, well let’s just see about that. Meet me near Kynesgrove and I’ll have my answer. Don’t take too long.”

Despite her brusque manner he _does_ want to see if she’s right about the dragons waking up. He stops by High Hrothgar first to drop off the horn, much to Lucien’s dismay. He’s secretly proud of himself for making it up there _and_ carrying Lucien up the last thousand steps in as undignified a fashion as he can manage. After finishing up his business there and making haste to Kynesgrove he slays his dragon (his second, as a matter of fact), impresses Delphine and is generally all aboard with her plans to find out more right up until she mentions the Thalmor embassy.

She must see the sweat on his brow and the tenseness of his shoulders. It’s all he can do to say his goodbyes to her without stumbling over his words. Even his oft head-in-the-clouds companion cottons on that something is amiss, gets him to sit down and explain why he really, really doesn’t want to do what Delphine has asked of him.

“What if… what if I used to be a Thalmor?” he admits at last in quiet misery. “Half the people I’ve come across in Skyrim act as though I am one just because I’m an altmer. What if they’re right? What if most altmer _are_ working for the Thalmor, and I used to be one of them? What if I get to the embassy and someone recognises me?”

There is a heavy, weighty pause.

Which Lucien ruins, because he’s very good at that.

“Oh I shouldn’t think so,” he says with his usual bright tone, “It’s very unlikely that a Thalmor agent would end up a mage’s thrall.”

Normally Lucien’s levity is welcomed, but… “I can’t rule out the possibility. And I have no means of knowing one way or another.”

“Well no, but think about it. If you could’ve been a Thalmor, you could’ve been a bandit, or a necromancer, or anything really. One day someone might go ‘hey I recognise you, you killed my mother!’ or something like that, and then what would you do? Ultimately you don’t know what kind of life you used to lead, and you can’t spend your days terrified of that. The very slim possibility that you might have been a Thalmor isn’t any different. Don’t despair over something you can’t change.”

His gnawing panic settles somewhat. “I… you’re right. Thanks Lucien.”

“I’m alright at genuine condolence once in a blue moon,” Lucien says gently. And then: “But, uh, now the subject has come up - I don’t want to worry you, but it’s actually much more likely that you used to be a bandit or a necromancer instead of a Thalmor. Usually when we come across dead prisoners in caves and whatnot they were also bad people in life. We think. Inasmuch as we can tell from their clothing and vaguely evil-looking faces anyway.”

He groans. “THANKS, Lucien.”

-

He finds a few things to do that will busy him before heading back to Riverwood, until eventually he must admit to himself that he just doesn’t want to go. Whether he used to be a Thalmor or not is irrelevant; he doesn’t want anything to do with them. The problem isn’t going to go away, but the temptation to delay dealing with it for a time is too great.

“Let’s just… let’s escape Skyrim for a bit. Just for a bit.” He’s as much convincing himself as he is Lucien. “You wanted to find that dwemer ruin on Solstheim?”

Lucien is immediately on-board. “Dumzbthar? Yes, very much so!”

“We have another reason to go to Solstheim too,” Chrysanthe murmurs, rooting around in his pack for the - ah, there it is. The note, now quite crumpled, that he’d found on those dragon cultists who attacked them in Ivarstead a while ago. He traces over the jagged handwriting and the damning words:

_Kill the False Dragonborn known as Chrysanthe before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

Miraak. _Miraak._ Once again the name pulls at him in a way he can’t explain. He knows he’s heard it before, but he can’t think where. But then he is missing most of his memories so maybe he _has_ heard it before. Maybe he knew this Miraak before he was a thrall. Whatever the connection, he feels like he should pursue it.

There’s some connection to him being Dragonborn too, so he feels a little less like he’s running away from his fate. He’s just… pursuing other avenues. To Delphine’s investigations into the Thalmor. That’s all.

“I’d almost forgotten about the cultists trying to murder you!” Lucien exclaims, breaking Chrysanthe from his reverie as he so often does. “Alright, cultist-hunting and dwemer-investigating. Are you sure we’re alright to leave Delphine before helping with her plans though? She doesn’t strike me as the type of person who likes being kept waiting.”

Chrysanthe presses his lips flat. He’s certain that she’ll be annoyed, but if she’s so eager to make it happen she can find a way without him. “We can’t help with everything and the cultists are a bigger issue right now. If they really came all the way over here from Solstheim there’s _something_ over there they don’t want me to find.” That’s what he’ll tell her when she inevitably shouts at him anyway. “Besides we’re not too far from Windhelm, that’s where the ship is, right? It makes more sense to travel now.”

-

The voyage to Solstheim is marvellous. He wasn’t sure how well he would deal with the lurching ship but he finds the motion soothing rather than nauseating. Lucien, it turns out, is also immune to seasickness, but he is quite susceptible to _seaboredom_ when he runs out of books to read on the second day. He talks Chry’s ear off about the dwemer instead, but Chry doesn’t mind.

In the brief space between mainland Skyrim and Solstheim where he can’t see either landmass on the horizon, it feels like he’s just suspended in nothingness between sea and sky. Everything is so _blue_ , like the sapphire set into his saviour-ring. It might just be his favourite colour.

-

Chrysanthe has gotten a little better at talking to people over the course of his adventuring career, but he would not say he’s a skilled negotiator. In particular he tends to ask direct questions where more subtlety might go smoother, because he doesn’t really know how to _do_ small talk when he has his own agenda.

Basically when second councillor Arano asks what his business is here, Chrysanthe cuts right to the chase: “I’m looking for Miraak, do you know him?”

What he doesn’t expect is for the dunmer to sort of flinch, then frown heavily as though trying to remember something. “Miraak? I… I’m… I’m not sure that I do.”

He’d say Arano was trying (and massively failing) to hide something from him but honestly the man just seems confused. Even when Chry presses the issue he can’t get a straight yes or no out of him. When he gives up and changes subject Arano seems to relax, slipping into a more eloquent register. It almost feels as though he’s already forgotten the mention of Miraak’s name.

“Hmm,” says Chry after he’s gone.

When he’s off the boat Chrysanthe asks several inhabitants of the Raven Rock settlement if they’ve heard of Miraak, and gets varying degrees of _I feel like I do but I can’t remember. I’m sure I’ve heard that name but I don’t know where. I feel like I dreamed about him, maybe?_

“HMM,” says Chry after a while.

“It _is_ worrying,” Lucien agrees, well used to interpreting Chry’s monosyllables. “What do you want to do?”

He glances up at the sky, which is currently darkening towards evening. “Let’s get a room at the inn, we’ll set off for one of those shrines mentioned tomorrow. Hopefully we can get more of a clue as to what’s going on here…”

He turns into the Retching Netch (not sure if he loves or hates the name) and talks to a few more people to fill the last hours before bed, though he doesn’t get any further with his investigation. He _does_ meet a sellsword by the name of _Teldryn Sero_ who offers his services. Chrysanthe doesn’t usually go for mercenaries but he could do with someone more local to Solstheim to guide him, so he pays the man’s fee and agrees to reconvene tomorrow morning.

When he’s in his room he fishes out that cultist note again, re-reads the words. How many times has he looked at the word _Miraak_ and thought it seemed familiar somehow? It never really worried him up until speaking with the people of Raven Rock. This Miraak person is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, but he knows it can’t be good, and he might be more involved with this than he first thought.

He’s concerned, but also tired, so he does eventually turn in for the night, with no idea of what awaits him next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who’s interested here’s a little more about my playthrough. 
> 
> I play on PC with a fair few mods to add extra complexity to the game. Chrysanthe used the Live Another Life - warlock’s thrall start to do something a little different. He was intended to be pretty much a thrall-turned paladin, and then he went to Solstheim at about level 20 and eeeverything changed.
> 
> Despite owning it forever I’ve never actually played the Dragonborn DLC before (I, uh, have also never finished the main plot of the game because I always get distracted with sidequests instead). Heard of the name Miraak, never understood why people seem to love and/or hate him so much. Well NOW I KNOW. I won’t lie it’s the voice that got me (first Paladin Danse and now this, damn you Peter Jessop) but the concept is really interesting. He’s a very sympathetic villain, especially by Bethesda writing standards.
> 
> Even though I didn’t start this playthrough with it in mind, it struck me that a former thrall would understand Miraak’s desire for freedom very well. Even though Chrysanthe was supposed to be my definitive Good Boy TM (makes all the moral choices, rejects all the daedric artifacts etc) meeting Miraak absolutely put him on a more neutral path. Not dark (and not even grey, really) but not as squeaky-clean righteous as I was intending.
> 
> For anyone who isn’t sure who Lucien Flavius is he’s an excellent modded companion with more dialogue than pretty much every other follower put together, and I found him a great foil for my quiet Dragonborn. This story is Dragonborn/Miraak and not Dragonborn/Lucien but he shows up a fair bit in the upcoming chapters along with Teldryn Sero.
> 
> Skyrim as a game is pretty old so I’m not sure if anyone will really read this story, but if you’re here and enjoying it leave me a comment! I would love to discuss Miraak’s complexities with someone. Otherwise, stay tuned for more chapters…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s go time, baby.
> 
> I feel like the Dragonborn DLC doesn’t really warrant a spoiler warning, but there are some upcoming spoilers for the Lucien Flavius mod, namely his personal quest.

_Hello? Please, can you hear me? You must wake up!_

A female voice he does not recognise, thick with a nord accent.

_He’s not responding. Oh gods oh gods what do we do?_

A male register, if high-pitched with panic. Crisp imperial accent. Familiar.

_Stop running around, you’re making it worse. Come on boss, wake up. Wake up!_

This voice is known, if not known well. Rough and ashy, muffled as though by a mask. As his ears strain to listen, his eyes start to see.

The first thing he sees is his own hands.

He’s grasping a hammer and chisel, poised to chip away at pillar of stone in front of him. He’s… cold, for some reason. It takes a minute to realise he’s stood in a calf-deep pool of water. He’s outside and it’s night-time, the only illumination around being distant lights reflecting off the waters surface. _Too dark to work_ is the ludicrous thought that comes to him, as though _that_ were the weirdest thing about this situation.

His baffled glancing around attracts attention. A very pale-faced Lucien leans into his field of vision, his voice a fearful whisper: “Chrysanthe?”

“Lucien?” he says back, or tries to. His tongue feels leaden, the words slurred as though woken from the deepest slumber. He turns properly and sees Teldryn too, though his posture is more of someone who’s ready to flee at a moment’s notice. “Where are we?”

“I… _think_ this is the Tree Stone, though not as I remember it,” Teldryn answers, sounding much as he looks, as tense as a drawn bow. “You and a significant portion of Raven Rock got up in the middle of the night and walked here, as though in a trance. We’ve been trying to wake you up the whole way. You are… awake now, yes?”

“Y-yes. Yes, I’m awake.” Looking around he can see the others mentioned all chipping slavishly away at the stone. Their eyes are open but unseeing, and their lips occasionally move to mumble a strange litany. _Here in his shrine - that they have forgotten - here do we toil-_ He drops the tools he was holding as though they’ve burned him. Mind-controlled. He was mind-controlled.

His eyes immediately go to his hands, and he sees the magic resistance ring is still on his finger. It didn’t help, why didn’t it help?

“Easy now. Sit down before you pass out,” Teldryn all but grabs his arm and pulls him from the pool. “Lucien, go get the Skaal woman shouting over there. She’ll want to see this.”

He’s just about stopped hyperventilating by the time said woman comes around. Her name is Frea; many of these are her people, and this is one of people’s sacred Stones. Chrysanthe tries to listen as best as he can he’s acutely aware he’s not in his best frame of mind. The main thing he takes away is that this _Miraak_ is responsible for this. Every puzzled response he got to Miraak’s name when he asked around, every person who thought they knew him but couldn’t recall why? This was why.

“Have you seen this happen before? The mind control thing?” he asks Teldryn as they traverse the strange temple buried beneath the stone, a party of four led by Frea.

“I had no idea. But since I usually go to bed at a reasonable time, my guess is I’ve been sleepwalking with everyone else, until tonight.” The dunmer is masked, but Chry doesn’t need to see his face to read that Teldryn is highly disconcerted by the notion. “I stayed up late tonight to pack my things before we headed out tomorrow. If I hadn’t done that, I…” he trails off.

“And I didn’t sleep either. It sounds silly now but I was so excited at the prospect of Dumzbthar I couldn’t drift off, so I stayed up to do some reading instead,” Lucien admits, still anxious. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep ever again after this.”

He’s not sure he will either. There are dragon skeletons hung up like trophies and strange fish-like statues, and at the very pit of the temple they find a chamber unlike anything he’s ever seen and… a book. Bound in warped black leather and with some tentacled horror engraved on the front. Everything in him tells him not to read it but he has to know more about what’s happening - and if he doesn’t, he can expect to sleepwalk again the next night, and the next. So he peels the ancient pages apart, and reads: _The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of thought. The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First-_

-

“Who are you to dare set foot in here?”

 _That voice._ His breath catches in his throat, eyes widen. He would term the voice _grandiose_ , crisp and confident. More important that any of that though, is that it is so familiar.

“Ahh… you are Dragonborn. I can feel it. And yet…”

The shock magic still coursing through him keeps him from speaking but even without that, the sight before him renders him wordless. The face - or the mask, rather - is as alien to him as the creatures that surround Miraak. So he hasn’t _seen_ the man before nor met him in person… but that voice, that specific voice, he _knows_ he’s heard it before.

“Hmph. You have done little beyond killing a few dragons. You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield!”

He’s killed exactly three dragons, actually, and wonders if Miraak can see the specific number. Whatever he sees, he’s evidently unimpressed. Then Miraak exclaims a string of unfamiliar words in the dragon tongue, cloaks himself in brilliantly-coloured ethereal armour. The sound and sight of it snaps Chrysanthe from his thoughts, which were winding in increasingly tighter circles of _why do I know you._

“This realm is beyond you. You have no power here. And it is only a matter of time before Solstheim is also mine.” With an idle gesture Miraak turns away from him, walks over to the serpentine-faced dragon that lurks in the background. “I already control the minds of its people. Soon they will finish building my temple, and I can return home."

He doesn’t give Chrysanthe the means to reply. As he climbs onto the subservient dragon, Chrysanthe’s thoughts are a frantic jumble of _wait what did he just Shout that was a Shout and he has a dragon oh my gods he’s Dragonborn as well isn’t he he’s Dragonborn he’s Dragonborn he’s-_

“Send him back to where he came from. He can await my arrival with the rest of Tamriel.”

Magic. Pain. The sight of the dragon flying away, Miraak atop it, blurs into nothingness as he is cast back out.

-

Miraak is indeed Dragonborn, Chrysanthe soon learns. A very old one, at that. After millennia of disappearance he now seeks to return to Nirn.

He swiftly finds the means to disrupt those plans, though, in the form of a Shout called Bend Will. He only has the first word, **GOL** , but it’s enough to start breaking the sinister hold on people. He starts with the Wind Stone where Skaal placidly chisel away, turning lumps of rock into a shrine that will channel power to Miraak. Unsure what to do at first he steps into the pool and lays a hand upon the strangely warm stone. And then-

“Chry! _Chrysanthe!”_

Lucien’s panicked voice cuts through him like a knife. He startles to his senses as though he’d been daydreaming, and realises he is facing one of the stone structure pillars, hammer in hand - much the same as he found himself in Miraak’s temple. He jumps back at once, dropping the hammer in the process and flinching at the sound it makes when it hits the ground. None of the other tranced workers at the Wind Stone so much as glance his way.

Lucien claps a hand to his own chest, wheezing. “Oh thank the Divines. I really thought I’d lost you there.”

Teldryn, in contrast, has arms quite firmly crossed, and his tone is annoyed: “Boss, you’ve got to stop doing that. I charge extra for shortening my lifespan.”

“Sorry,” he says at once, even if he’s not exactly sure what he’s apologising for. “…What happened?”

“You touched the stone, immediately went still like you’d fallen asleep on the spot, then walked over here, picked up that tool and started working,” Lucien recounts, nervousness still colouring his words. “I asked what you were doing and all you did was join in on that creepy rhyme everyone else is saying. I nearly wet myself to be honest. Don’t do that to me again!”

“S-sorry.” He looks at his hands instinctively. Yes, the ring is still on his finger. No, it didn’t make a difference this time either. Evidently it was enough to break his last thralldom but this is something far more powerful at work.

…If the ring is indeed responsible for breaking the thralldom last time. He’s starting to have his doubts, now it’s proving ineffective against similar magic.

“At least you woke up again. None of the others will wake up no matter what we do. I suppose it’s because you’re Dragonborn? Either way I’m very glad you’re back,” Lucien continues, babbling to fill the silence. He’s clearly shaken by the abruptness with which Chrysanthe was controlled. So is Chry, honestly. “Why don’t you try Shouting at the stone instead? And not touching it ever again.”

“Right. Yes.” He backs up to use his Voice. Somehow he’s expecting it to be a bit like his Unrelenting Force Shout in that it’ll send people flying, but no such thing happens. What emerges, very much without him intending to, is a serpentine whisper that washes over the people and the stone, and bathes everything in a strange green energy.

The structure around the stone glows white hot and shatters into pieces as though made of glass. The people all come to their senses at the same time in a confused flurry. And the water around the stone begins to churn and boil before birthing some _tentacle fish monstrosity oh my gods what the hell is that_ \- he and his companions express as much and just about manage to kill the thing.

At the very least when it is all over the people of the Wind Stone are freed, and the three of them back limp back to the village as heroes.

-

It’s easy to forget in this new madness he’s found himself in, but he didn’t actually come to Solstheim to confront Miraak - at least, not so directly or suddenly. His main reason for coming here was to take Lucien to the dwemer ruin he’s been looking for, Dumzbthar, so once he’s cleansed most of the stones and is confident he and Teldryn can handle the rest, he takes Lucien there.

Dwemer ruins are a high risk high reward sort of place. Lots of treasure to be found, lots of whirring machines of death as well. This one is even deadlier than usual once Dumzbthar itself, as in the polite-voiced consciousness that runs the facility, declares its intent to hijack Chrysanthe’s body and leave this place. Chrysanthe isn’t really sure why Dumzbthar thinks _he’s_ the most powerful vessel in the group when Teldryn (and Teldryn’s trusty fire atronach) is putting in most of the work in killing the constructs, but fine. In any case they take down the dwemer-bound daedra at last.

Then Lucien asks if he can stay.

“Just for a little while!” he insists at the look Chrysanthe gives him. He knows it’s silly, but Lucien has been at his side since… well, since before this Dragonborn business even kicked off. He’s become so used to Lucien’s stream of largely inane chatter that he isn’t sure how he’ll cope without it. “Oh please don’t make that face, Chry! I just want to study the place for a little while, get a laboratory set up and I promise I’ll write to you when I’m ready to travel again.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your work,” he mutters, which is not entirely truthful. Lucien has been very enthusiastic to learn about Dragonborn lore, but he came to Skyrim specifically to try and find and study Dumzbthar. He’s selfish to deny his friend that, whatever his personal feelings on the matter. But he does have… a lot of feelings. More than he expected.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I’m ready,” Lucien promises earnestly. Chry tries to believe him.

-

Teldryn at least is interesting company, relentlessly sardonic and very money-minded; he often thinks that the dunmer’s love for treasure could rival any dragon. He’s also damn good in a fight and easy to get along with, which Chry supposes that as a sellsword he probably has to be. As they purify the remaining All-Maker Stones of Miraak’s corruption and start resolving some of the other issues plaguing the island, they strike up a camaraderie that he hasn’t found with too many other people.

Shouting the word of Bend Will always leaves him feeling strange… there’s a tingle under his skin he can’t identify, and the insistent feeling that he’s missing something important. Perhaps because this word came from Hermaeus Mora rather than the dragons themselves? It’s the only reason he can think of as to why this particular Shout would leave him feeling so unsettled.

Once the Stones are dealt with the only way to discover more of his new nemesis is to find more of the black books. Following in Miraak’s footsteps leads him to the Telvanni wizard Neloth, who leads him, quite literally, to Nchardak.

Another dwemer ruin as deadly as the last. He finds he does not so much fight as hide behind Neloth, who is quite happy to fireball all the centurions – and gods, there are _so many centurions_. Somehow he still finds himself battered and bruised by the time Nchardak is re-powered, and the black book in the reading room is available to him. An artifact of Hermaeus Mora, daedric prince of knowledge, he now knows.

“By all means,” Neloth gestures at the book, “The first read is yours.” His tone is sweet but insincere, eyes hungry for any sign of adverse effects before he risks himself. That’s fine; he’s well aware Neloth doesn’t have his best interests at heart.

“I don’t like this,” mutters Teldryn, who does have his best interests at heart, or at least at purse-strings, which for Teldryn is almost the same thing.

Chry gives him an awkward half-smile. “Look on the bright side, if I die you can keep my stuff.”

“No, you go translucent after reading these and I can’t touch you,” Teldryn sighs, “I did try taking some of those diamond rings you were carrying last time in the temple, on the off-chance they were forever consumed by tentacles. My fingers went right through you.”

“Never change, Teldryn.” He’s stalling, and Neloth is starting to look impatient. With an inhale, he opens the book. As always his eyes flick across the page, try to catch the words: _Bring you forth the lovestruck mute who preys with vigor on his love, and set the sky alight with all who dare to struggle 'gainst our move. For we are they who own the night and all who dwell without us fall; we drink the mind-grapes formed of thought and wail a tumult on the wall. To sweep-_ but then his vision blurs, and he feels the distinct sensation of something slippery coil around the back of his neck, and-

He is in Apocrypha.

Hermaeus Mora himself (itself?) greets him. He didn’t think a blob of eyes and tentacles could be expressive, but the way that eldritch pupil rakes over him distinctly reminds him of someone eyeing cattle at the market. He’s used to people looking at him with disdain at his altmer heritage or with awe after he’s helped them, but this brand of appraisal is completely new, and wholly unwelcome.

“Such a fledgling thing you are. Like a flower not yet bloomed,” the dripping voice coos, “You are bold to come here so unprepared, but you are also in great peril.”

He clears his throat, trying not to sound as repulsed as he feels. He’s not even sure Mora would take any offence to the notion, but he’s not willing to risk angering him. “I’m aware, thank you.”

He gets a thoughtful hum that seems to vibrate the very skies. “Read your book again if you wish to leave. I will not stop you. But if you choose to press on, I will reward you with great power.”

That’s all well and good, but great power isn’t exactly what he’s after. “Is Miraak here?”

“Oh yes, but he cannot reach you here. Not while I forbid it,” Mora purrs, sounding quite pleased by this fact. “You are getting ahead of yourself, little Dragonborn. If you met with him now he would assuredly kill you – he seems most keen to do so, in fact.”

Given that Chrysanthe has spent the last few days completely ruining Miraak’s carefully cultivated plans with the All-Maker Stones, he’s not surprised. But he doesn’t actually want to kill his supposed nemesis; for one he’s another Dragonborn, and even if he threw his destiny away for power there’s still plenty for Chry to learn if he could somehow convince Miraak to teach him. Secondly and an admittedly more selfish reason, is that he’s certain he’s heard Miraak’s voice somewhere before but doesn’t know where. The only thing he can think of is that it was before he lost his memories to thralldom, but how could they possibly have met if Miraak was in Apocrypha?

And so he says: “I don’t want to fight him.”

Unaware of Chrysanthe’s true reasons for this, Mora simply gives a low rumble that might be a laugh. “He will not leave you any choice.”

-

A few more words, and he’s on his way. He can’t see Hermaeus Mora but he’s certain the prince is watching his every move.

In truth, he very nearly takes up Mora’s suggestion of re-reading the black book to escape Apocrypha unscathed. This realm pulls no punches despite the prince’s apparent investment in him: the violently green sky makes him nauseous if he looks too long, the noxious fumes burn at his throat, and he’s forever avoiding assaulting tentacles. Mora’s floating servants, seekers, are hostile to him, and every fight with them feels like a clutch victory. Which is to say nothing of the terrifying lurkers that crawl from the murky water and proceed to kick him around like a rag doll.

The only thing that saves him is the restoration magic Erandur taught him so long ago (how long ago? How long has he been here? It could be hours, it could be years). Over and over he drops to his knees after barely pulling through a fight, presses a shaking hand to his wounds and knits himself back together. _Crunch_ as a lurker breaks his arm like a twig. _Snap_ as he puts it back together afterwards. By the time he makes it to the end of this small pocket of Apocrypha, his face is streaked with blood, slime and tears. It’s not his best look.

For his struggle he does at least learn the second word of the Bend Will shout, and what he needs to trade to Mora to learn the third word. He doesn’t want to work for a daedra, and he doesn’t want to bring potential harm to the Skaal when they’ve been more decent to him than most nords. But he does want to confront Miraak, and it seems like he can’t do that until they’re on more even footing.

The black book offers him another reward as well, the means to improve one of his Shouts. _Unrelenting Force. Fire breath. Frost breath._ He balks at the unfamiliar draconic lettering of the last two; he hasn’t even learned the first words of those Shouts from the word walls dotted around Skyrim. As a matter of fact, Unrelenting Force is the only Shout he knows all three parts to, and only because the Greybeards gave it away for free.

Well, this is embarrassing. He’s starting to feel like he turned up to a party too early. For lack of other options he opts for the Unrelenting Force one and after that, he’s back in Nchardak.

-

And then there is a dragon.

Miraak’s dragon, specifically. The man may not be able to harm him in Apocrypha while Hermaeus Mora has anything to say about it, but there are no rules about harming him in Nirn. It strikes quite literally the moment he steps out of Nchardak, as though it had been waiting impatiently outside. Neloth is already gone – he left as soon as the book was read, mildly disappointed that Chrysanthe hadn’t returned with tentacles for eyes or somesuch, and Chry lingered an hour longer in the ruins to mop up any last bits of treasure. He is therefore without his fireballing wizard to hide behind.

“Miraak has commanded your death. So it shall be,” the dragon thunders between great waves of ice-breath that Chry narrowly avoids.

“Tell Miraak I do not want to fight!” he shouts back.

He only gets a snarl, “I will only tell him of your demise.”

Well, that’s that then. If peace isn’t an option he must fight, and so he darts between fragments of the ruins, heart in his throat. He has no knack for destruction magic and the arrows he fires at the creature more or less bounce off its scaled hide. Teldryn and his atronach make more of a dent, but a dent is all it is.

“It’s no good!” he calls to Teldryn over the screaming wind and sound of great flapping wings. “We need Neloth, I’m going to make a run for his tower!”

“You’re going to do _what?!_ ” he thinks he hears, but he doesn’t have time to second-guess himself. It’s run and maybe die or stay and definitely die, and so he runs.

It’s him the dragon’s after and so it chases, coating the back of his armour in sheets of ice that he has to chase away with healing magic if he doesn’t want to perish on the spot. More than once he skids to a halt under one of Solstheim’s huge mushrooms, pulls the fungus over him like a blanket and lets it weather the assault while he desperately wills his magicka to replenish. When the dragon turns back to swat at Teldryn’s poor atronach, re-summoned for the fifth time, he grits his teeth against the pain and takes off once more.

“Weak!” the dragon booms, angered by his refusal to die, and apparently his very existence. “You would cower and run rather than face me? You insult the name _dov_ , pretender!”

He sure feels like one as he leads the dragon closer and closer to Tel Mithryn. But cowardly as it may be, it does work.

Neloth, or perhaps Neloth’s apprentice, but most importantly _someone_ comes to his aid with fireballs streaking across the skies at the advancing creature. Once it’s forced to land he rushes into melee, which is not a great idea because dragons have teeth, but gods he just needs this to be _over._ By some miracle he kills the dragon before it kills him – the thing that finally ends it is when he calls on the power of the All-Maker stones and wraps the dragon in a blizzard so cold it pierces even its impenetrable hide. It is the very last drop of his resources, leaving him utterly depleted. When he’s done, he falls to his hands and knees and nearly sobs.

Then he watches, wide-eyed, as the rushing winds and rivers of light deliver the dragon’s soul not to him, but to the visage of his enemy who steps from nothingness and regards him coolly.

“It takes a strong will to command a dragon’s soul,” says that man, that mask, that faceless gravelly voice that seems to ricochet around inside his head. “Perhaps you’re not as powerful as you think.”

He says this to Chrysanthe, who is currently on his hands and knees, and painted a remarkable combination of black, blue and red from his adventures today. Chry can think of many sarcastic things to say in response but in this moment, all he can think is that this is his first face-to-face with Miraak since they first met in Apocrypha and a chance to tell him directly-

“I don’t want to fight you,” he says as sternly as he’s able, which is not very much. His chattering teeth and bloody nose heavily detract from the effect.

Infuriatingly Miraak merely folds his arms. “Then you should not have intervened. But by the look of things… even if you did have the courage to fight me, you wouldn’t be much of a challenge.” With that final quip he’s gone once more, vanishing into the wind like he was never there.

He hears the familiar rustle of Teldryn’s chitin-clad footsteps behind him, though there’s a distinct lurch to his gait. When he turns and looks the dunmer is moving stiffly from the frost breath, and blood is seeping through his armour. Even with his obscuring helmet on, Chry is certain his face is twisted into a pained grimace.

“So that’s Miraak, huh,” the dunmer rasps, though it’s more of a wheeze. “…Did he just steal your dragon soul?”

“I... I think he did, yes." It definitely _looked_ like it. He doesn't have that crackling surge of power in his veins a newly-acquired dragon soul gives him either, only his aches and pains.

“Can he just _do_ that?

“Can and did, apparently.”

There is a long, considered pause while Teldryn stares at the dragon skeleton, bereft of soul. “Alright,” he says at last, with a weary tone that immediately puts Chrysanthe on edge. No sentence that starts with that tone of voice is going to be one that he wants to hear, and sure enough: “This starting to remind me of my old employer. You know, the one who died pointlessly taking on a whole bandit encampment by himself?”

Chry hunches. He hates to admit it, but… “I’m really out of my depth, aren’t I?”

“Just a bit.” The dunmer turns his head back to Chry pointedly. “Listen. I like travelling with you, and I especially like how much money we make, but if we’re going to keep fighting this Miraak we need a better plan. I don’t want you to be the second employer I walk away from, but I will. That fight nearly got me killed.”

“I know,” Chry says softly. This path leads to death - the fact that he very nearly just died to Miraak’s _minion_ , not even _Miraak himself_ , is proof enough of that, but there have been multiple reminders today that he’s not ready for this. Hiding behind Neloth through the dwemer ruins. Surviving Apocrypha very much by the skin of his teeth. Not understanding most of what the black book had to teach him, because he actually only knows one Shout in full. Miraak then turning up and stealing his dragon soul is the icing on the cake.

Lost in his increasingly depressing thoughts, he misses the heavy silence that hangs between him and Teldryn. The mercenary sighs and crosses his arms. “This is a bad time to have this discussion. I don’t know about you but I need sleep, alcohol and about a pitcher of healing potion. Let’s stop by Tel Mithryn’s apothecary and see if Neloth will let us sleep here.”

-

One sleepless night later, he’s no closer to knowing what he should do next, though he does know one thing.

“You’re right,” he tells Teldryn quietly the next morning. He knows he’s still covered in bruises, and he’s certain his companion doesn’t look much better under his helmet. “I need to get stronger before I provoke Miraak any more or he’ll send another dragon after us. So let’s put the black books aside for a while and focus on fixing Solstheim’s… many, _many_ other problems. After that we’ll decide what to do.”

He’s saying _we_ but it’s all his decision really. Teldryn will come along whatever Chrysanthe does, unless it’s following him into certain death. Still, the dunmer nods.

So fixing problems is what they do - the mine, the ash-spawn, the missing Skaal (the latter turns out to be Thalmor, gods why are they _here_ of all places). Between this he finds out everything he can about Miraak, though soon grows frustrated with his lack of progress. Aside from what the Skaal have said no-one seems to have a clue who he is; he flips through every unfamiliar book he comes across in the hopes one will tell him something but there’s nothing to be found.

His greatest breakthrough comes from a recently unearthed tomb that the Skaal’s resident scholar (their Lucien, if you will) asks to investigate with him. It ties in with a book he’s come across, _The Guardian and the Traitor_ , and it doesn’t take him long to piece together who is who. The Guardian is spoken of reverently but he can’t help but notice it’s written from the perspective of the dragon priests, and dragon priests are… well, evil. Aren’t they?

And then there are the elderly scholar’s theories he’s read about the Skaal being descended from dragon worshippers, and the All-Maker being perhaps synonymous with _Alduin_ , as in _Alduin the world-eater_ … that definitely puts a new perspective on things. The Skaal have told him in no uncertain terms that Miraak is bad but they would think that if they’re descended from the group he betrayed.

Of course, Miraak _is_ bad. Even putting aside that the order he betrayed might have been a greater evil, he did still sell his soul to Hermaeus Mora for power. Chry is under no illusion that this was anything less than willing and deliberate on Miraak’s part, and his punishment was to be imprisoned in Apocrypha. Now he seeks to free himself and ruthlessly seized the residents of Solstheim to do so. These are not the acts of a good man.

Chrysanthe can’t help but think, though, that they are the acts of a desperate man. He’s been to the hellscape that is Apocrypha; if he had to spend some four thousand years in there with only Mora for company, he’d start re-thinking his morality too. It’s true that Miraak might not have had any morality in the first place, but…

Well. Chrysanthe knows what it is to be enslaved. Perhaps it is only natural that he’d view Miraak in a more sympathetic light than most. He’s been insistent from the start that he doesn’t want to actually kill Miraak ( _stop_ yes, _defeat_ sort of, _kill_ no) and learning more is only reinforcing that idea. Unfortunately it’s a one-sided truce; while no more dragons are forthcoming he gets the occasional group of cultists thrown his way to remind him that Miraak still wants him dead. Chrysanthe fends them off, and bides his time.

…He still can’t work out where he knows Miraak’s voice from, gods damn it.

-

By the time Raven Rock is finally prosperous and peaceful again Chrysanthe feels more capable than he did, but he need only remember how he crawled from Apocrypha to know it isn’t nearly enough.

“Decision time I think,” he tells Teldryn. He actually spent all of last night thinking about this as opposed to doing something useful, like sleeping. “I have a plan, but I may need your help with it. I’d like to let Lucien know too, and Frea - remember, the Skaal we met at the temple? If we all convene in the Skaal village I can explain it to everyone there.”

“I shall, as always, assist however I can,” is Teldryn’s drawling reply. “Let’s pick up the scholar, then. Hopefully he hasn’t been crushed by dwemer while we were gone.”

“Please don’t joke about that,” Chry mutters, because that would be just his luck.

-

He picks Lucien (uncrushed) up from Dumzbthar with the promise to escort him safely back again once he’s done, and takes him and Teldryn to the Skaal village. From there he pulls Frea aside, explains that he’d rather explain himself to her than her father, and that she can pass the message along to him and whoever else she deems appropriate. He doesn’t tell her about Mora’s request for Skaal knowledge. He hasn’t actually told anyone about that yet; it’s a bridge he’ll cross when he comes to it. And then, with the four of them gathered, he tells them his plan.

“…You’re leaving?” Frea says slowly.

“Back to Skyrim, yes.” He doesn’t miss her incredulous tone but he knows this is the right decision. Goodness knows he’s thought it through, and through and through. “I think it’ll be safe for me to do so. Miraak was planning to escape Apocrypha using power syphoned from the All-Maker Stones, right? But I’ve broken his hold on all of them except the Tree Stone, which is too far gone.” He taps his fingers against his gauntlet thoughtfully. “That gives him a trickle of power, but on the whole if he doesn’t have the Stones, he can’t get out.”

“I feel like he’s still going to get out eventually. This isn’t a threat we can just ignore,” she points out, doubtful.

“Oh definitely eventually,” Chry nods. He doesn’t have any doubt about that. “But not _imminently._ As things stand right now I’m not strong enough to take him on. So my plan is to sail back to Skyrim, get better at this whole Dragonborn business, and return when I feel I can defeat him.”

“But… you _are_ coming back, yes?” Frea asks, sounding unhappy. “The Tree Stone is still ensnared by Miraak. Every day he steals from the All-Maker.”

 _The All-Maker could be Alduin,_ Chrysanthe thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. A religious debate would serve no purpose here, and besides he only has theories that the Skaal are unwitting dragon worshippers, not concrete facts.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says instead, as gently as he’s able. “I’ll return as soon as I can but if I fight Miraak now I will fail, and then he’ll take every Stone from you, and more besides. We need to let him have this victory, for now.”

After a weighty pause, the Skaal sighs. “I know that you speak the truth. It is an ugly truth, but the truth nonetheless.”

“In the meantime I need you to keep an eye on all the Stones. If Miraak corrupts them again send word for me, I’ll come to cleanse them again to stall him. That’s all we can do for now.”

Frea nods, “I can do that.”

“Teldryn, if you can keep an eye on the Stones too that would help so I have two sources of information. That and take down any dragon cultists you find.”

“Stone-sitting duty. Marvellous,” the mercenary intones dryly. Chrysanthe gives him a Look. “Yes, fine. You’re the one paying me. I hope you’re paying me.”

“A shipment every month,” he promises. Teldryn’s pretty easy to keep happy. “Lucien, I want you to tell me if anything _magically weird_ happens because it might mean he’s trying another route.”

Lucien salutes, “Absolutely, boss!” Lucien is also easy to keep happy.

All agreed he drops Lucien back in Dumzbthar and heads back to Raven Rock to book his ships passage back to Skyrim. He gets a memorable goodbye from Teldryn in which the dunmer tries to say _I’ll miss you_ without admitting to having emotions. He gives Teldryn a hefty handful of diamond rings, because he never did get around to selling them (obviously he has to sell the heavy stuff first and by the time he’s traded all that away no-one has any money left to give him. Solstheim needs more merchants).

“I’m not crying,” Teldryn says raspingly, “I just have something in my eye.”

“Is it tears?” Chrysanthe teases.

“No, it’s money,” Teldryn answers so seriously that it actually wrangles a laugh from him. “Come back soon, boss.”

With that, he takes his leave back to the mainland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting fact: after arriving on Solstheim your average player can either find out about Miraak’s temple by asking around enough, or can witness everyone doing their nightly sleep-walking thing to the Earth Stone and meet Neloth, who will direct them onwards. But it turns out if you go to sleep on Solstheim as I did, you also get mind-controlled and suddenly find yourself helping to build the temple. I thought it was a nice touch by the game devs.
> 
> I was quite low level when I went to Solstheim and subsequently got my ass kicked by everything over there. I really did have to cheese the Miraak’s minion fight by leading it to Tel Mithryn, and Apocrypha involved a lot of reloading. It did make me feel wildly out of my depth though, which is a good thing for story purposes. 
> 
> No joke, I deliberately left Teldryn on Solstheim because I suspected I’d fall in love with him instead of Miraak if I took him everywhere with me. Teldryn is awesome.
> 
> Have you figured out where Chrysanthe has heard Miraak’s voice before yet? Don’t worry, Chry will figure it out himself before long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Skyrim we go~  
> WARNING: Further spoilers for Lucien Flavius’ quest.

He steps off the boat and back into Windhelm. It hasn’t got any friendlier since he was last here, particularly not with the civil war raging on. Chrysanthe has avoided involving himself as much as possible despite the empire and stormcloaks both advertising for new soldiers (not that he thinks the latter would take him), but there’s no escaping the tension in the air. He doesn’t stay in Windhelm long of course. Rather he heads eastwards to relatively new territory in the Reach; he has a fair few tasks over at Markarth, which he hasn’t been to before.

There he finds not one but two meddling daedric princes, one of which he plays along with until he can dispatch her cult, which to his horror involves a lot more residents of Markarth than he thought. The second traps him in a house because apparently daedric princes can just _do_ that, and forces him to face off against the Vigilant of Stendarr who asked for his help in the first place. In his desperation not to fight the maddened Vigilant Tyranus he resorts to using the Bend Will Shout. He’s only used it on the All-Maker Stones and he hasn’t used it at all since learning the second word; a Shout that warps the minds of others is completely antithetical to him, even when he’s using it for good.

Tyranus goes briefly still and slack, and only responds to Chrysanthe’s frantic questioning with a monotone “We have to get out.” Then after a minute or so, during which Chry scrabbles uselessly at the entrance and thinks _have I really been defeated by a locked door_ , his control fades and the man resumes attacking him. The only kindness he can perform is a clean death, telling Molag Bal to shove off, and marching back out of that cursed house, blinking away tears with the desperate resolve to be angry instead of upset. _Daedra_. He hates Daedra, so much.

In his hope to do some good for this city, which is quickly supplanting Windhelm as the Worst Place Ever, he looks into the would-be murder he prevented on his first day here. He ends up dealing with a thoroughly corrupt guard and another snotty noble family by the name Silver-Blood, who are much of a muchness to the Black-Briars except their thugs are Forsworn instead of Thieves’ Guild. Lovely.

One murder-ridden conspiracy, wrongful imprisonment and subsequent jailbreak later he watches the Forsworn he sort of kind of helped free tear through the city guards and thinks _that could have gone better._ There’s an argument to be made that the guards deserve it, given how they treated him, but a bloodbath hadn’t been his end goal. He leaves Markarth with a heavy heart, and vows not to return unless he really has to.

-

After Markarth, he spends his days basically travelling from place to place, performing small kindnesses for people where he can, and picking likely-looking ruins to explore in the hopes they hide a word wall or some other useful Dovah knowledge. He still considers himself a middling fighter at best and emerges from his escapades injured more often than not. Chasing away his bruises with magic becomes a nightly ritual, though at least it hones his restoration. Then he flops onto his inn bed / tent furs / some dead bandits bedroll if he’s really unlucky, and all but passes out from exhaustion.

He enlists a follower from time to time but none of them really… stick. It’s more his fault than theirs – he can’t exactly say _I’m adventuring to become a stronger Dragonborn so I can face my arch-nemesis who I would actually rather not be enemies with._ So he tends to stick with _I’m adventuring for treasure and glory_ and leave it at that. He gives a half-hearted explanation to those that witness his dragon soul-absorbing powers but otherwise remains reticent, so he shouldn’t be surprised if his camaraderie with people never progresses past lukewarm. It’s times like this that he really misses Lucien, who was with him even before he became the new Chosen One. Or Teldryn, who has never been much for hero worship. He passes by Dawnstar to greet Erandur like the old friend he is, but when he thinks to invite the priest along once more something stills his tongue. It feels like too long ago, and he has changed too much. Not for the worse per se, but still.

Against expectations he does get a letter from Lucien to say his preliminary studies are finished and he’d be happy to travel again. Much as he misses the company he has too much to do in Skyrim to sail back to Solstheim just yet, and he doubts Lucien is sat there twiddling his thumbs while he awaits Chrysanthe’s return - studying Dumzbthar could probably keep him busy for months, years. He faithfully sends off a shipment of treasure to Teldryn at the end of the month, and every so often a harried looking courier will deliver a bottle of sujamma and a cursory note along the lines of: _Stones are still stony. Life is dull. Thanks for the loot._

For a while, nothing really changes. He learns a few new words. He gets a home in Falkreath, put together with his own hands; he figures a secret base out in the wilderness is less likely to be discovered and targeted by dragon cultists, who he still runs into on the roads from time to time. He amasses a bookshelf’s worth of information on the Dragon Wars and the time that came before it, and anything that might be even vaguely related to Miraak. He feels a little better informed and marginally stronger, but it’s hard to forget how thoroughly Miraak’s minion dragon thrashed him. He spends more than one sleepless night plagued with thoughts of _I can’t do this I’ll never be able to do this what am I doing with my life how can this possibly end with anything other than a violent death._

And yet he knows full well that if he threw all his responsibilities to the wind and took up something placid he wouldn’t last a day. There’s something in his blood that compels him to wander - wander into draugr-ridden tombs and vast dwemer vaults and up treacherous mountains where a dragon waits on the top. He finds dragons, plenty of them, and dragon priests too. After each fight, most of which he barely pulls through, he casts his eyes about for an appearance from Miraak, but there is nothing. Tells himself the twinge in his chest is relief and not disappointment. Perhaps the man’s power is constrained to Solstheim, just as the black books are.

Eventually he is proved wrong on this.

It’s at the dragon shrine atop Mount Anthor, a locale the Greybeards pointed him towards when he asked where a new Shout might be found. He defeats the gold-scaled serpent at the top, bloodied and burned by the end of it. Distracted by the word wall chanting for his approach (a phenomena that took him some time to get used to; now it is mundane), it takes a moment for him to realise the rushing winds of the dragon’s soul are flowing away from him, not into him as they normally do. A split second later he gasps as he remembers what that means-

“Not this time, Dragonborn. This one’s mine.” He couldn’t mistake the voice for anyone else.

Their dynamic is different now. Chrysanthe is not on his hands and knees, having barely pulled through an attempt on his life. He’s still injured, but this was a dragon he deliberately sought out and defeated himself. He is not a frightened fledgling anymore - at least, this is what he tells himself as he steels himself to speak: “I expected you sooner, Miraak. I’ve been busy killing some of your contemporaries.” From his pack he pulls the dragon priest masks he had stowed and casts them to the floor. Krosis, Hevnoraak and Zahkriisos. “Re-killing, I should say.”

Perhaps he just imagines it, but he’s fairly sure that Miraak actually pauses. His form flickers, translucent and transient, and his shoulders tense, denying the call to return from whence he came.

“You have grown stronger,” he murmurs, “But not strong enough to defeat me.”

His line hasn’t changed since the last time: “I don’t want to fight you.”

“You disrupted my plans and then consorted with Mora. _You_ have made an enemy of _me,_ not the other way around,” Miraak all but growls. There’s something about the deeper register that sets tingles across Chrysanthe’s skin. He knows he’s heard that voice before – not from his brief mind control at Miraak’s temple but somewhere else, older, but where? _Where?_ “And this after I spared your miserable life in Apocrypha. I should have killed you then before you meddled.”

“Why didn’t you?” Chry challenges. It’s something he’d like to know himself, even if there’s another question gnawing away at him. He’s not really sure how to drop _so have we met before_ into conversation though.

“You were too pathetic to bother with at the time,” is the curt reply, which is standard fare for Miraak, but then his next words catch Chry completely off-guard. “And I did not expect to find someone… like me. To my knowledge no two Dragonborn have ever crossed paths before as we have, and so I stayed my hand.”

_Oh._

This has occurred to Chrysanthe before. Dragonborn appear to be dotted throughout the centuries, always sporadic and never more than one at once. During some of his sleepless nights he’s laid awake and thought mournfully that there exists no-one, no-one who is like him, with his powers, with his responsibilities. Except for Miraak. The only two of their kind.

He didn’t realise Miraak had thought of that too, though.

“My curiosity cost me dearly,” the man goes on with a mirthless laugh, “Seeing as you went on to ruin everything… but no matter. I intend to take your dragon souls as recompense. I will have my freedom, one way or another.”

He never gets the chance to respond. He can _feel_ it - the tendrils of Apocrypha tingling along his skin, dragging their possession away from Nirn. He swears he can feel Miraak resisting too but of course in the end, Apocrypha must win out. He gets in some ominous parting words before he goes: “Until next time, Dragonborn.”

The words echo around the peaks of the mountain even after his departure. They ring so clearly to Chrysanthe - even above the wind, even above the mantra of the word wall, even above the heartbeat thudding in his ears.

-

The next time Miraak comes is in fact the next time Chrysanthe slays a dragon. This one is at Gjukar’s Monument, a scattering of stones in the windswept plains near Whiterun. As the dragon disintegrates into the air Chrysanthe once more feels the spirit pulled away from him rather than towards him. He straightens up, but as he’s only marginally less scorched than his surroundings he can assume that he doesn’t look all too impressive.

“Another dragon soul for me? Your actions only serve to hasten my return.” He can hear the smirk in those words, even if he can’t see Miraak’s face behind that impassive eldritch mask. “At this rate I will be free long before you are ready to face me.”

Again. He will repeat it again and again. “Miraak, I don’t want to fight you. I’m not trying to replace you. I don’t wish to serve Hermaeus Mora.”

“So you keep saying, yet here you are honing yourself, learning all you can about me, following in my footsteps. You are preparing yourself to defeat me, are you not?”

“I want to know more about you, that doesn’t make me your enemy.” Mostly he wants to know what the hell Miraak is actually going to do if he leaves Apocrypha. Everyone seems convinced that his return is a bad thing, but the more Chrysanthe thinks about it the less he’s sure about _why_ , specifically, it is so bad. What makes him worse than the violence Skyrim already suffers? “I want to know what you plan to do, when you escape.”

Miraak leans forward. “ _When?_ Not _if?_ ”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We both know you’re getting out of there eventually. What do you plan to do with your freedom?”

Infuriatingly, the man shrugs. “Whatever I want.”

“That isn’t an answer,” he insists. “Your rhyme says ‘ _And when the world remembers, that world shall cease to be’._ Does that mean you intend to bring destruction to Nirn?”

“That would very much depend on how Nirn reacts to me, wouldn’t it?” is the smartass reply, “I crave freedom first and foremost. Anything after that is speculative.”

“But what are your intentions-” But then Miraak is gone, and Chrysanthe is left gritting his teeth that his question never did receive an answer.

-

Against his own wishes, Chrysanthe must eventually face the task he’s been putting off. He visits Delphine in Riverwood.

He gets about the greeting he expected: “Well well. Here I thought you were dead in a tomb somewhere.”

“I’ve been busy,” he tells her mildly. He hopes that his new armour and altogether more confident bearing will tell the rest of the story for him, as he has no further desire to justify his absence. “Did you find someone else to infiltrate the Thalmor embassy?”

“No. None of my contacts are up to the job and I don’t have the resources or the trust to hire anyone new. It’s you or nothing.” She looks pointedly at him. “Will you do it?”

-

He does it.

That feeling he had when he traversed Nchardak, then Apocrypha, then ran for his life to Tel Mithryn with a murderous dragon on his heels? That feeling of being wildly out of his depth with his imminent death looming like a long shadow? That feeling pursues him throughout the embassy. He hardly knows anyone at the elegant party he infiltrates, and almost ruins everything a few times when he doesn’t recognise Jarls for who they are. He somehow manages to slip away and recover the stash that Malborn smuggled in for him, only to realise that his usual equipment - swords and heavy, noisy armour - don’t serve him at all here. Unless he wants to fight his way through the embassy and this is a _very bad idea_.

He finds an alternative: a spare Thalmor uniform in some of the side rooms. His stomach twists but, well… he _is_ an altmer…

By some absolute miracle his half-baked plan works and he walks his way through the embassy with his best Thalmor impression. How no-one gets a read on the utter panic coursing through him is anyone’s guess; his thoughts are a maelstrom of _oh gods I can’t believe it how is this working what if someone realises why did I let Delphine talk me into this._

He’s almost, _almost_ at the point where he might be able to grab the evidence he needs and walk right back out again but then he hears someone being tortured in the room up ahead, pleading for their freedom and… and…

“Sorry Delphine,” Chrysanthe mutters, taking out his sword as quietly as he can. It’s a pointless gesture; before long his Shouts are shaking the very foundation of the building, and the bodies of half a dozen Thalmor lay at his feet. He gets out, along with Malborn and his liberated prisoner, before it turns into another massacre.

-

Luckily it seems Delphine didn’t expect any particular finesse from him, and the important part is that he got what she wanted.

So then he’s off to Riften, rescues Esbern from the Ratway crawling with Thalmor (he’s never going to get away from Thalmor, is he). He makes it all the way back to Riverwood without incident, and then a dragon chooses to attack.

“Get inside!” he tells Esbern frantically; he didn’t bring him all this way just to lose him to a dragon at the last minute. Esbern starts a protest, and then the creature swoops down and releases a great gout of flame onto some of the guards. Esbern swiftly silences, ashen-faced, and runs for one of the buildings.

Of course the buildings might not be safe either, Chrysanthe soon realises. A thatched roof catches ablaze, the embers threatening to crawl down to the timbers. He Shouts at the dragon to draw its attention and tries to lead it away from Riverwood, but the fire is spreading fast, leaping from house to house. The town will burn down before he can deal with the dragon at this rate.

_What do I do?!_

In his desperation he calls out a Shout for which he only knows the first two parts: “ **STRUN BAH!** ”

He’s never used this Shout before, despite collecting the words some time ago. He vaguely knows what it does going by the meaning of the words ( _storm, wrath_ ) but it has always struck him as a little… godlike, to use on a casual basis. Sure enough the words feel like they tear violently from his throat, and streak into the sky above like an unstoppable force.

Above him the clouds sharply pull inwards to a central point, casting the skies into abrupt darkness. Lightning crackles across the heavens, and thunder booms like a choir. Then rain cascades down, the droplets so heavy they almost form sheets of water. It sluices against the burning buildings with a great sizzling hiss, and to Chry’s relief he sees the fire becoming smothered as he’d hoped.

 _That_ gets the dragons attention. It turns to dive at him, only to be caught off-guard by a lance of lightning. He spends a lot of time taking cover from furious flame-breath until the lightning and arrows of the guard injure it enough to land, and then his sword takes care of the rest.

By the time it’s over he’s drenched in blood and rain-water, looking more the part of a drowned skeever than a hero. Naturally the universe should conspire to make Miraak turn up at this time to take his dragon soul, which he actually felt like he earned this time.

He’s sure Miraak is about to make some grandiose statement or scornful quip but what actually happens is that he stares at the sopping wet Chrysanthe and then looks up at the still-tumultuous sky. Not for the first time, he wonders what Miraak can actually see when he makes these visits; after all Chry can only see Miraak, not his surroundings in Apocrypha. He obviously sees enough to surmise that a storm has passed, and not one that was entirely natural.

“At last, you use more than one Shout.” Well, there’s his scornful quip.

“My one Shout is perfectly fine thank you.” He _does_ use Shouts besides Fus-Ro-Dah, he just keeps the really dramatic ones in his back pocket for… times like this, he supposes. “Since you’re here-” Time is precious and there are conversations to be had. He hurriedly wipes water out of his eyes, dignity be damned, “-You can answer my question from last time. What are your intentions with this world?”

“It is there in the mantra,” Miraak says blithely, arms crossed.

Chry paces back and forth, a gesture that is ruined by the fact that there’s water audibly sloshing in his boots. “Your mantra is deliberately vague. _That world will cease to be_ only implies that the world will be changed.”

Miraak leans forward a little. “Then you have your answer. A world that does not know me will become a world that assuredly does.”

“You want to seize power, then?”

He can’t see it, but he has the distinct impression that Miraak just rolled his eyes. “”Everyone wants to seize power. Besides, do you really think I would orchestrate my return and then take up farming? Do not be naive.”

He did know, deep down, that he’d get an answer like this. Of course Miraak would have ambitions after his escape. _Dragonborn, chosen of Akatosh, changer of fate._ He can’t even impose a quiet life on _himself_ , never mind on a Dragonborn that is a lot older, more powerful and more cunning than he is. Miraak must have that same stirring in his blood that Chrysanthe feels more and more these days, and a lot less morality to temper him.

“Why would you ask?” Miraak says, which catches Chry by such surprise that he stops his pacing. He’s used to asking the questions, and being frustrated at the inevitable non-answers. “You know who and what I am, you would be able to surmise my ambitions. So why do you ask?”

“I don’t know anything about you,” he shoots back. He knows facts, such as that Miraak sold his soul to Mora, but not _why_. All sources say it was for power but that doesn’t ring entirely true - Miraak was a high ranking dragon priest, a king among kings. He already _had_ power, what made him trade it away? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t have enough time with Miraak to hold a whole conversation about it. “All I’ve read calls you a power-hungry traitor, but I believe there’s more to you than that.”

“Is that so,” his foe rasps. His tone is… odd, and it takes Chry a moment to interpret it as intensely _interested_. “And why would you think that?”

He swallows. “Because history is written by the victors. Truth changes with every hand that records it.”

He gets a very long, hard stare. “You continue to surprise me,” Miraak says.

And then he’s gone, of course.

Chry looks at his hands, which are shaking. He slowly clenches and un-clenches his fists, water dripping off his gauntlets, then turns and squelches his way towards the inn where Delphine will be waiting.

-

“So,” Delphine gestures at Chrysanthe, but the words are directed towards Esbern, “He’s Dragonborn.”

Esbern looks at Chrysanthe, who is still soaked through from his summoned storm. Outside the sounds of people putting out the last of the fires can be heard, but they sound more jubilant than panicked. “Yes, that is rather obvious now.”

The storm, and the fact that he caused it, has been remarked upon by everyone in Riverwood. Chrysanthe is half flattered and half flustered; he’s never been great at dealing with awe and he’s had it in spades today. Somehow Miraak’s visit went unnoticed, which is odd as he remembers Teldryn remarking on him before. If he had to guess, everyone who isn’t Chrysanthe must be standing quite close to notice his translucent form. He’s relieved in a way that he doesn’t have to explain his complicated nemesis to his newest allies.

Next up is finding Alduin’s Wall. He’s starting to feel that familiar oh-no-this-is-too-much twist in his stomach again though so he interjects before he gets roped into the next thing: “I can’t go right now, I have to travel to Solstheim.”

“But…” Esbern blinks, baffled, “Dragonborn, there is really no time to lose.”

“There is time,” he says firmly. He knows Alduin hasn’t woken up all the dragons yet and he’s reasonably sure the world isn’t going to end tomorrow if he delays. “I have problems to deal with over there. I’ll be back in a few weeks so either go on without me or wait.”

-

Escapism always seems to be the thing that drives him towards Solstheim. He does in fact have business there, last time he focused his efforts on improving life in Raven Rock but the rest of the island still holds plenty of secrets. Secrets about Miraak, potentially. Secrets that will give him an edge in… in… _whatever_ he’s doing right now. He doesn’t even know. Even after the sea voyage, which without Lucien gives him plenty of free time to mull this over, he’s no closer to an answer.

He’s still adamant that he doesn’t want to kill Miraak. He also understands, perhaps a little too well, Miraak’s desire to be a free man. It can’t come at the cost of other people’s freedoms though, and that is what Miraak will do if he escapes Apocrypha now. Chrysanthe feels like he’s in limbo, biding his time and growing in strength until some new solution presents itself.

If nothing else Chry is certain that, despite Miraak’s gloating about the dragon souls fuelling his escape, he’ll have to steal a lot of them before he musters enough power to break free. He has time to deal with this problem, just not an infinite amount of it.

-

Once he steps off the boat he goes straight to Severin manor, which he was gifted for his help to Raven Rock. He passed the keys to his favourite dunmer (sorry Erandur) because Teldryn might as well live in more comfort than the Retching Netch, and keep his house livable while he’s at it.

“Miss me?” he smiles, while Teldryn pretends he wasn’t just sitting reading _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ with his feet on one of the tables.

“Like a hole in the heart.” He hasn’t heard that particular phrase before. “Are you back with a mission, boss? Here to kill that arch-nemesis of yours?”

“Hmmn. No, not yet… I’m stronger than I was, but not strong enough. I’m here for a change of scene from Skyrim really.” He shifts his weight a little, “I was hoping to visit Lucien as well.”

Teldryn gives him a flat look. “Oh I see how it is. Playing favourites, are we.”

“I missed you both in equal measure,” Chry promises. “Come with me to Dumzbthar? Then we’ll stomp around Solstheim a little.”

-

He’s on his way northward to Dumzbthar when he passes by the Water Stone, mostly to check if there’s any new sign of corruption. None of the Stones (barring the Tree Stone, permanently bound to Miraak’s temple now) have been manipulated again according to his letters from Teldryn and Frea, and he’s pleased to see that this is indeed the case. He can’t be too careful but it seems Miraak has dropped his plans for the Stones altogether in favour of usurping Chrysanthe’s dragon souls instead.

Speaking of which, a dragon appears.

Fighting dragons hasn’t gotten easier per se - he’s still useless with a bow or destruction magic, and his lack of ranged options means he’s limited to Shouting and taking cover until the dragon tires of his cat-and-mouse tactics and lands to deal with him. When this happens he rushes in to hack at a leg or wing, underbelly if he can reach it, while avoiding the snapping jaws of a creature much larger and stronger than he is. The whole thing is a lot less heroic and dignified than the bard songs make it sound.

He’s still panting with exertion when he notices the dragon soul flowing away from him once more, whereupon he spins around to see-

“You are in Solstheim again,” Miraak comments, head tilted slightly. “Re-cleansing the Stones I see. Are you so keen to keep me in this prison?”

“I’ve never said I wanted to keep you in prison,” Chry challenges, “All I want is to keep you from hurting other people, particularly from using them as puppets.”

He gets a disdainful sound. “A small price to pay for the freedom of their better. But you needn’t have bothered. My new source of power is you, after all.” There’s a long, considered look. Chrysanthe is acutely aware of how much he’s changed since the last time Miraak visited him - even since Riverwood, which wasn’t that long ago, he’s gone through an armour upgrade and continued to hone himself, physically and magically. More importantly though is how far he’s come since their first meeting, when Miraak had him on his knees with a single spell, and it was all Chry could do not to cower before him. “You have grown so much stronger. If I consumed your soul, perhaps… that would be enough to free me.”

“You can only take my soul if you meet me in Apocrypha,” he says as steadily as he’s able. It’s hard to stay even-toned in the face (mask) of someone who claims to want to _consume_ him. _Consume_ is a very visceral sort of word. “Telling me all your plans for my soul will hardly coax me to come.”

“Then don’t,” Miraak hisses lowly. Chrysanthe’s nape prickles at once. _This feeling again._ “Do not come, see if it makes any difference. I will simply absorb every dragon you kill until I am drip-fed enough to escape.”

He dissipates, still seething. More than ever, he reminds Chrysanthe of why they’re called _Dragonborn_ , of what it means to have a dov soul in a mortal body. The captivity has made it tenfold worse, brought out the beast in him that writhes and thrashes to be free. He _knows_ there’s a brilliant mind underneath all that rage, if he could only bring it to the fore.

His heart is thundering so loud in his ears that he almost misses Teldryn’s comment on the whole scene: “So he’s still stealing from you then?”

Chry scrubs a hand over his face and gives a shuddering exhale. “Yes. He was doing it in Skyrim too, it’s not just restrained to here.”

“He’s chattier than last time.”

“We’ve been talking, if you could call it that.” He isn’t sure if he should really admit to this, but- “I’m trying to understand his side of the story.”

Teldryn shrugs. “Not sure what there is to understand, but it’s your funeral. So long as it’s not mine too.”

-

Putting the incident out of his mind he picks up Lucien, who is indeed happy to join in on the stomping around Solstheim, and that’s just what they do for a few days. But before long there’s a loud buzzing which reveals itself as Lucien’s dwemer resonance sphere. The scholar twists and turns it in his hands.

“It shouldn’t really be doing this unless…” then he goes pale, “Unless my laboratory is under attack. Chry! My laboratory is under attack!”

-

He drops absolutely everything and tears across the island back to Dumzbthar. The problem is swiftly revealed as the daedric gate reactivating itself and pouring numerous angry dremora into the lower levels. There is however another, altogether more important issue.

“What is this?” Chry says, gesturing at the vaguely humanoid automaton before him. In his peripheral he sees Teldryn heave a sigh and lean against a wall, bracing for the mounting argument. “We kill Dumzbthar and then you bring him back and give him a new body?”

Lucien flounders under the questioning. “Well - well - isn’t that what he wanted all along?”

“Yes, I remember him trying to _murder me_ so he could possess mine!”

“Which he’s very sorry for! Aren’t you Dumzbthar?” Lucien asks the construct frantically, who assents in the put-upon tones of someone who is really only sorry they failed. Lucien looks hopefully back at Chrysanthe, then squirms at the glare he receives in return. “Look, I’ve put behaviour restrictions in place so he can’t try it again, I’ve set up the body so he can’t leave the building _and_ I’ve discussed all of this with him thoroughly to establish why the boundaries are in place. I haven’t been careless about this!”

He tries not to seethe, it doesn’t become him. He must have faith that Lucien has done a careful job - and if he hasn’t it’s his own life he’s risking anyway, not for Chrysanthe to dictate - but that’s not really the issue he takes here. “It’s more than you elected to keep it a secret from me.”

“I’m really _really_ sorry for not telling you, I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought you’d tell me it was reckless and maybe it is but-” Lucien implores, tone pleading. “Dumzbthar has been around thousands of years. All that knowledge of the dwemer, the facility and everything else? I couldn’t throw it away, I just couldn’t.”

In that single utterance he takes all the wind from Chry’s irritated sails. He knows that feeling. He knows it far too well, actually. “…I understand,” he mumbles, anger dissipated.

“You do?” Lucien sounds immeasurably relieved. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear it. I won’t keep any more secrets from you, I promise.”

-

Later, when they’ve cleared the laboratory of invading dremora, he opts to stay the night on one of the facility’s stone beds - uncomfortable, reminds him of Markarth, but better than pitching a tent in Solstheim’s ashy wastes. He’s just about drifting off, when-

“OH!” Lucien, who is in another bed across the room, suddenly sits upright and says, altogether too loud: “You were talking about Miraak!”

“Lucien sshh!” he glances over at Teldryn. Sleep is one of the few times Teldryn actually takes his chitin helmet off, and the rare glimpse of his face says that yes he’s still asleep despite the exclamation. The mercenary merely grumbles in slumber and turns over to escape the source of the noise. “Also, what?”

“Sorry,” Lucien stage-whispers, which is only fractionally lower than his usual speaking tone. “Earlier when you said you understood about me sparing Dumzbthar, that’s because of Miraak, isn’t it? Thousands of years of knowledge going to waste? That’s why you don’t want to fight him.”

“Alright yes,” Chry mutters. Then: “Wait, how do you know I don’t want to fight him? You weren’t there all the times I’ve spoken with him.”

“Teldryn told me! We do chat when you’re not around you know. Also whenever anyone brings up killing Miraak you make this little _hmmn_ noise. Most people think you’re agreeing with them but I know a non-committal Chrysanthe _hmmn_ when I hear it.”

Despite himself, he smiles. “I should have known. Yes, you’re right. He’s a Dragonborn just like me and he’s from the time when dragon priests ruled over everyone. Letting all that knowledge and experience go to waste would be tragic.”

“Doesn’t he want to destroy the world though?” Lucien’s tone is inquisitive rather than damning, which is a good start.

“Not exactly but he does have… ruthless tendencies.” Unfortunately he can’t really gloss over that fact. “You have to remember that he came from a very brutal period in time, and then he spent thousands of years in Apocrypha under Hermaeus Mora’s thumb. Uh, tentacle. I don’t think he’s evil through and through like everyone thinks he is, but I need to find a way to…” he gestures futilely, “Remind him how to be a person again. If I could do that he might treat other people with less cruelty.”

Lucien rolls onto his stomach, kicking his legs out behind him like they were at a slumber party, rather than in a formidable dwemer ruin. “So you’ve been speaking to him every time he turns up to pinch one of your dragon souls?”

He nods quietly. “I’m trying to but he can’t stay in Nirn very long. Less than a minute, usually. It’s not enough time to have a meaningful discussion.”

“There has to be another way of communicating with him. Could you leave notes for him in Apocrypha?”

“I considered it, but I have the feeling Hermaeus Mora can access any written material that makes it into his realm. He might even be able to change the words and meaning to set us against each other,” Chry says ruefully. “If I’m to speak with Miraak it has to be away from Mora, somehow. I can’t think how I’d do it though.”

“Shame you’re not a dwemer,” Lucien muses, “Did you know they were all telepathic? It was called The Calling, fascinating stuff.”

“Huh,” Chrysanthe says.

Then, as a realisation slowly dawns.

“Lucien, you’re a genius.”

“I am?” the scholar blinks owlishly. “I mean, thanks very much! Um, why am I a genius though?”

“Telepathy,” Chrysanthe repeats in wonderment. “If I could broadcast my thoughts directly to Miraak I could spend all the time in the world talking with him, without Mora intervening.”

“That’s brilliant! Though, slight problem, you’re not a dwemer. And it’s believed The Calling was an innate ability they had, not a technology that just anyone could use.” Just as Chry is about to proclaim _oh well I guess that’s that then, sort of wish I hadn’t got my hopes up,_ Lucien continues: “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a go, I could ask Dumzbthar what he knows about it. Maybe there’s some way to… I don’t know, turn you into a dwemer or something?”

He laughs softly, “That can’t be possible.”

“Chrysanthe, _dragons_ are a thing. Big flying lizards. Anything is possible,” Lucien says seriously. “Stick around Solstheim for a few weeks, give me time to look into it. Maybe it won’t amount to anything but we have to try, right?”

Well… he’s not wrong. Chrysanthe swallows. “Alright. Let’s try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So aside from reclaiming the soul of his own minion sent after me Miraak was a no-show for the next five dragon fights. I think it’s an anti-frustration measure by the game to not have him steal from you too much when you’re low level / have a lot of Shouts still to learn, but I was waiting for him to appear gdi. He showed up in Mount Anthor at last and was a more frequent visitor after that, though he didn’t do the relentless thieving some angry people on the Internet rant about.
> 
> Markarth is the worst and my hatred of the place only grows each time I start a new game and have to do that blimmin’ quest chain again. Windhelm is distinctly unfriendly when you’re playing an elf, but at least the quests are a little more varied.
> 
> Gameplay quite nicely influenced the story in Riverwood: I actually did fight a fire dragon and used Storm Call for the first time ever. It. Was. Awesome. Very pleased that Miraak turned up to that one too.
> 
> I hope my characterisation of Miraak is okay; I’m conscious of making him a hidden softie when the Miraak we know in-game is anything but. He always came across as something of a force of nature to me, and hopefully does in this story as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucien needs time, so Chrysanthe marches all over Solstheim with Teldryn to find things that will occupy a few weeks. Finds the scattered armour pieces of a long-dead pirate. Puts a significant dent in the riekling population. Helps defend Raven Rock against more than one dragon. He doesn’t fear for Raven Rock’s safety the same way as Riverwood though, since the houses are made of stone and the guards are far better armed ever since the mine re-opened. Miraak, surprisingly, doesn’t show up, despite earlier threats that he always would. Chrysanthe theorises that stepping into Nirn is something of a drain on Miraak’s power, and something he can’t do too often if he wants to net gain from taking Chrysanthe’s dragon souls from him. It’s that or occasionally he nabs a dragon soul when Miraak isn’t looking, or something.

He also helps out Neloth, something he’s been avoiding because he and Neloth are not exactly _friends_ , but it needs doing. Once he’s fixed Tel Mithryn’s many grievances Neloth will at least let him trade him his treasure for enchanting lessons, which is the one school of magic he thinks he’s actually quite good at.

“Why are you still wearing that old thing?” Neloth asks him one day, gesturing to his hand. It takes him a minute to realise he’s talking about his ring, the chunky gold band and rough-cut sapphire. Honestly he’s had it on so long he forgets he’s wearing it half the time. “It has a paltry resistance enchantment on it, I know you’re capable of better than that.”

He twists it around his finger defensively. “I like this ring. It has sentimental value.”

“ _Pah_ ,” Neloth says, which very succinctly describes his feelings on such things. “If you won’t get a new ring let me at least show you how to enchant a half-decent amulet…”

-

_Woe betide my fate-wrecked heart,_ _Which gives no tender shine to he,_ _Who gave his favors up to gods,_ _And brought his blood-struck mind to me-_

The words of the black book blur before his eyes.

Chrysanthe has actually been to Apocrypha a few times by this point. It’s never a pleasant experience, and almost always serves as a reminder that he’s not as tough as he thinks he is. He can fight off all the rieklings, reavers and ash-spawn in the world, and they will never prepare him for Hermaeus Mora’s realm. Each new black book he finds provides a gauntlet of puzzles and fights for him to run and at the end, a boon to claim. Begrudgingly he must admit that some of these boons are very useful, though he’s always careful to pick ones he won’t come to rely on.

This particular book is a little different though. Rather than getting lost down warping hallways he finds a single path to tread, which is cloaked in a pitch-black darkness. Anxiously he ventures in, only to skitter right back out again when he’s overcome with a horrible nausea. It reminds him of the magic some vampires he’s fought before have used, draining at his health in a slow and excruciating manner.

The solution is thankfully self-evident when he casts a hovering magelight and beats the darkness back. As he trudges forward however he finds the pool of light it provides shrinks by increments, and he pulls the magelight closer and closer to himself for fear an errant tendril will try to snuff it out. There is the occasional hovering light that provides a safe haven, though he’s also aware that moving from light source to light source is much like being led astray by a wisp. Still he hasn’t much choice. Outside his own small circle of light he’s effectively blind, and this leads to several nasty encounters with seekers who lunge from the darkness at him and must be frantically beaten back.

He would take the fights over what feels like endless walking through a formless void, however. It leaves him trapped in his own head, thinking too many thoughts. A particular one occurs to him and once it’s there he can’t let it go. Could he just… ask? He swallows heavily, and calls out to the nothingness: “Hermaeus Mora?”

“What is it, mortal?” is the immediate response, which answers his question on how closely Mora has been watching him in here.

“Is Miraak here? Can he see me right now?”

“He is always here and always near. Much like my seekers he is drawn to the beacon of your soul like a moth to a flame,” Mora purrs. Gods, he sounds like he’s right in Chrysanthe’s ear. It makes his every hair rise on end. “But he cannot reach you, nor can you reach him, unless I allow it.”

“…Can we meet? Not fight, I just want to… see him.” He’s aware it’s a nonsensical request but if he can meet with Miraak he can… he can… he doesn’t _know,_ he just wants to be face to face with him at last. As though to prove to himself that Miraak is really here and not merely some ghost that haunts him every so often.

Mora’s laugh buzzes all around him, “And what purpose would that serve?”

Think, think. Obviously he can’t tell the truth, especially when he barely understands it himself. He needs to give a reason that will tempt the daedra into indulging. What does Mora like?

“I suppose it would only upset him,” he offers at last, powering through the words even as they pain him to say, “To see the one who might replace him so near, and be unable to do anything about it. It would cause him some distress.”

Unfortunately he knows this is also true, even if he’s using it to cover his real reasons. Getting Mora to dangle him like a carrot in front of Miraak will likely infuriate his enemy, especially because it would be unwitting on Mora’s part - as far as Chry can tell Mora knows Miraak chafes under his imprisonment but isn’t yet aware of Miraak’s designs for escape, or how they involve Chrysanthe. Despite this, he can’t pass up the opportunity to actually speak with Miraak for more than a minute at a time. He just has to think about what they can discuss with a daedric prince listening in.

“It would indeed.” As he’d hoped, Hermaeus sounds entertained by the prospect. “Very well, mortal. Since you have taken such a vested interest in my black books… I will grant you this request. Walk forwards, into the dark. You may take that little light of yours.”

So he does, the magelight hovering close to his chest. The scant light it provides shrinks even further as he traverses deeper into that darkness, until he is surrounded by nothing but pitch black on all sides. More than once he swears he feels something slimy brush against his arms or legs, flinches but trudges on, putting one foot in front of the other.

“Keep going,” remarks the voice.

He’s probably just walking up and down the same corridor knowing the prince's sense of humour. It doesn’t matter, he’ll do as he’s asked. He doesn’t know how long he’s travelled but eventually he startles when he walks right into a wall. His faint illumination reveals it’s that same material that makes up every other solid surface in this realm; it looks like patterns of wrought iron, but feels organic. The gaps in the complex latticework show glimpses of what lay on the other side, because that’s just Hermaeus Mora all over isn’t it. Though at the moment, all he can see on the other side is more darkness.

Then something slams up _against_ the wall, with enough force to shudder at the thin material. Chrysanthe gasps and staggers back, then leans in again wide-eyed when his magelight affords him a glimpse of silhouette and the occasional glint of weathered gold.

“There. You can see him, just as you wanted,” Mora’s tone is utterly sly. “Only see. I had to take away his voice so he could not Shout, and his magic so he could not harm you, so you will find him silent.”

Chrysanthe’s face twists into a grimace. This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all, but he should’ve known Mora would find some way to turn his request against him.

Even so, that’s really Miraak on the other side. Well maybe, he doesn’t really have that good of a view of him. Chry tries sliding his magelight forwards for a better look but as soon as the glow leaves him he feels that hungry blackness start to gnaw at his health and sanity once more, so he hurriedly reclaims the light. He _thinks_ it’s Miraak, the shape of his shoulders look around right. The fact that they’re shaking with anger is a giveaway too.

Trapped and muted on the whims of a daedric lord. Of course he’s angry.

“You still possess your Shouts and your magic, of course,” says Mora with a rather more sinister register, “So if you wished to bring some harm to him now, you could.”

He wonders if Miraak is screaming impotently behind his mask, or stood there in stony silence, as Chrysanthe is.

“I’d rather face him as an equal than as an animal in a cage,” he responds as calmly as he’s able. Against perhaps his better judgement he steps back up to the wall, that thin little barrier than separates them both. He presses himself as close against it as he can so he can pull his magelight forwards without exposing himself to the draining dark around him. The light won’t pass through the wall but some of the illumination filters through those tiny gaps to the person on the other side. He thinks he can see the shape of Miraak’s mask but has to admit it could also be a seeker, floating there to fool him. He wishes he could hear him breathing, but Mora has silenced even that.

He can only look and be looked at - he assumes Miraak can actually see him, given how he attacked the wall. He’s better lit from this side, and hopes that the other can at least see his face, and the expression of sorrow cast upon it. Hopes that this will tell Miraak what he can’t say in front of Mora. Damn it, what can he say? He asked for this so he could speak to the man, even if he can’t respond. As a matter of fact he should be talking and talking while Miraak can’t interrupt him for a change. But he doesn’t have a monologue stored away in his head, and he finds himself struggling for any words at all.

He supposes he should start with his mantra.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he tells the shape of Miraak. Of course, there is no response. “I’m not your enemy, understand? You’re the only other one of my kind, with tenfold more knowledge and experience. Why would I throw that away?”

The silhouette merely stares in silence. Ordinarily, even though Miraak’s face is covered, he can always read his reactions through his posture and gestures. Now there’s nothing and the not-knowing is driving him mad. He’s certain it’s of deliberate design on Mora’s part. Sighing unhappily he tips forward to rest his forehead against the gate.

“There must be a way,” he murmurs, “That this can end without one of us dying to the other. I know there is.”

His eyes flicker back and forth as he tries to see better into the darkness, but he has only the vaguest outline of a humanoid shape on the other side. He can tell he’s stood very close, as close as Chry is, and it sort of looks like he has his hands pressed up against the wall. At first to beat against it in the hopes of breaking through, but now they simply rest there, palms splayed and fingers curled up against the soldered patterns. The gaps aren’t big enough for him to take any sort of grip, but Chrysanthe thinks that maybe, if he…

He places his hands on the wall as well, blindly moves his fingers across the gaps until they contact something that isn’t the cold, hard material of the gate. The coarse texture of gloves - and as soon as he touches they jerk away so suddenly that Chrysanthe briefly worries if he accidentally shocked him. Not that but unfamiliarity, he realises at once; it may well have been centuries, longer, since Miraak was touched by anything not belonging to Apocrypha. The notion makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. He resolves to keep his hand where it is, stays there even when he sees the figure move away and pace agitatedly on the other side of the wall.

“He has some choice words for you. Perhaps it is just as well you cannot hear them,” Mora comments from above, heavily amused. If he’s interpreting this as Chrysanthe deliberately goading Miraak then good, that means his true intentions are masked. Unfortunate that Miraak should also interpret his actions that way but he hopes that later, when he’s had time to think about it, he’ll understand.

That being said after some pacing, he sees that silhouette close the gap between them again. He bites down on his lips to stifle his reactions when he feels gloved fingertips press up against his own once more - tentative at first then firmer, insistent that Chrysanthe should feel Miraak pushing back.

He’s shaking, he realises. His throat is tight and his eyes sting with the threat of tears, but he’s not even sure why. There’s just something desperately tragic about this moment: two Dragonborn who have been twisted into enemies instead of allies as they should be, separated by an inch of wall and a mile of intentions. He wants to say it out loud, proclaim _please understand, I want you to be free too. If I knew a way to save you without bringing harm, if I could only bring out the good in you, I would do it right now._ But he can’t say those things because Mora is listening, and because he does not, in fact, have a way to do anything he wants.

He’s surrounded by empty void but he’s sure Mora can see through it as though this were a brightly lit room. Possibly he can’t see the minutiae of their fingers pressing into each other, but eventually he’s going to catch on to their wordless communication. So Chrysanthe pulls his hand away, lets go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and steps back.

“That’s enough. There’s no sport in enraging a mute man,” he lies blithely. “I would like to move on. Where’s the next chapter of the book?”

If Mora knows of his untruth he doesn’t comment on it. Instead a distant light flickers, the only patch of scenery in the all-consuming darkness. “This way, Dragonborn.”

He turns and walks away, outwardly callous, inwardly anguished. He follows all the book’s chapters to the end, claims his boon and returns to Nirn, and only then does he permit himself to cry.

-

The next black book he finds is in Benkongerike. This time Apocrypha is a twisting maze of tunnels but he’ll take that over the terrible blackness of before.

“Could I see Miraak again?” he asks Mora. “Please don’t make him mute. I’d like to actually speak with him this time.”

Hermaeus Mora gives a thoughtful hum, and then: “No, I do not grant you this request. One time was enough.”

He swallows hard. “Why not? Would it not upset him again?”

“Ahh, but you do not wish to upset him, do you? Do you think I missed your declaration from last time?” Mora says sweetly, which only serves to make him sound tenfold threatening. “You wish to learn from him instead, but the only one you will learn from is me. You worry that his death will be wasted knowledge, but this is not so. All that he knows, I know, and you will know… _if_ I permit it.”

His stomach twists with anxiety - of course Mora heard him, he knew the prince was listening in. Thinking back he doesn’t think he said anything too damning at the time though, and if Mora thinks that Chrysanthe merely wants to _learn from_ Miraak, as opposed to wanting to _save_ him, then he has kept some secrets still. Certainly the knowledge of an ancient Dragonborn would be useful, but he’s more interested in the man himself, not what he has to teach.

“Of course, all knowledge has its price,” Mora continues, “And as of right now you are yet to learn the third word of the Bend Will Shout. When will you deliver the Skaal unto me?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I’m not… I’m not ready to learn it, yet.”

“You are not the budding flower you were when you first came to me,” the prince reminds him, and something about the tone is… _hungry_. As though he’d watched a lamb raised to a sheep, ready to be slaughtered and made into a fine meal. “But have it your way. I will wait for you, but you will get no more favours from me until you have done as I asked.”

-

He’s barely set foot outside Benkongerike when a dragon, probably one that was nesting in the nearby Saering’s Watch, spots him and attacks. It’s not too hard of a fight, comparatively speaking. When the creature lies dead he strangely knows Miraak is coming even before he makes his appearance. There’s something in the way the wind changes and the air sharpens that hearkens his arrival. Sure enough, he’s there.

“Dragonborn,” is the rather terse greeting. He’s used to a bit more gloating to kick things off.

“Miraak,” he responds. He glances over to the ice-cave he just emerged from, which is still within viewing distance. “You know I was just in Apocrypha. Were you there too? Could you see me?”

“Of course I was there,” Miraak snaps at once. “And I can always find you when you come to Apocrypha, you are not difficult to track down. Hermaeus Mora keeps me from you, but I can watch from a distance.”

Chry pauses. He doesn’t know any smooth way of broaching the subject but he can’t just not discuss it so… “And the time before this visit? It was really you, on the other side of that gate?”

He sees the tension play across Miraak’s shoulders, remarkably expressive. “Yes,” he says lowly. “…Why did you put your hand to mine?”

Chrysanthe has struggled to stop fixating on that particular moment since he returned. Late at night, when there’s no light source around, it’s all too easy to place himself in a different brand of darkness. Pressed up against an unyielding wall, touching his counterpart by fingertips alone.

“I wanted to prove that my intentions were peaceful. I meant every word I said back then - you and I should not be enemies.”

Miraak merely shakes his head, his voice rough with something remarkably close to pain, “You say one thing and do another. You had Hermaeus Mora bind and mute me, and for what? To demonstrate that I am powerless?”

“No!” he exclaims at once, “If I’d known he was going to do that I would never have asked to see you. I only wanted to meet with you so we could speak for more than a minute!”

The man throws up his hands, in sharp contrast to his usually collected and arrogant manner, “ _Why?_ ” he says, sounding completely and utterly exasperated. “Why do you care so much? You know I want to kill you, why can’t you just reciprocate?”

Chrysanthe has no one good answer for this and time is fast running out - already he can see Miraak’s visage wavering - so he just blurts out everything all at once, “Because you’re also Dragonborn, because you’re ridiculously accomplished, because I don’t think you’re as evil as everyone tells me, and because I think we’ve met before!”

Miraak’s hands drop to his sides. “Met before? What do you-”

It’s a testament to how off-kilter Miraak is actually, because rather than his usual smooth exit after stealing one of Chrysanthe’s dragon souls, he slips away mid-sentence. Chry is just able to see him frustratingly clench his fists as he fades into nothingness, dragged back to Apocrypha. The argument stopping so abruptly throws him too; for a minute he just stands there blinking stupidly with no idea what to do next.

Teldryn wanders quite casually into his field of vision and starts loading up his backpack with leftover dragon scales, as they always do after a fight.

He gives the dunmer a pointed look. “Not one word. Not. One. Word.”

“You got it, boss,” says Teldryn, which is four words.

-

At long last Lucien sends him a message on his progress and he rushes to Dumzbthar. Unfortunately it isn’t the breakthrough he’d hoped.

“So it’s a no,” he surmises once Lucien has finished explaining how The Calling works, according to his dwemer-daedra accomplice anyway.

Lucien wags a finger “It’s not a _no_ , it’s a _probably not._ That’s not the same.”

He sighs. “I truly admire your optimism Lucien, but if this isn’t going to work I’d rather you just told me. I can pursue other avenues instead of chasing a hopeless lead.”

“Pursuing other avenues was exactly what I was going to suggest actually. We’ve been looking at dwemer, but what if we looked at something post-dwemer?” At Chry’s questioning look, he continues: “The dwemer disappeared but their legacy didn’t, and a lot of later races took inspiration from it. It’s possible some of them figured out telepathy - in fact I _know_ they did because it’s mentioned in some historical accounts, look-”

A lot of cross-referencing lore books and Lucien’s own scribbled theories later he has to admit the scholar is onto something. He’s also a little overwhelmed by how much effort Lucien has put onto this, there are pages upon pages of notes. He’d assumed Lucien wasn’t terribly invested in Chrysanthe’s dealings once he had Dumzbthar to play with instead, but there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary here.

“I think I’ve reached the limits of what I can find out with Dumzbthar though,” Lucien admits when he’s finally wound down from his frantic explanations. “He knows sooo much, but it’s only from his time period - once the dwemer disappeared he was stuck in here with no idea what was happening in the outside world. So if we’re going to find out more, I need a new information source. I was thinking… did you ever join the college in Winterhold?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t. I’ve never considered myself good enough at magic to join.”

Lucien gapes at him. “Are you kidding? You can heal just about anything and your enchanting is through the roof.”

“That’s more of a recent development,” he mumbles. He’s given Neloth a _lot_ of treasure for lessons.

“Well, we should go and join! We’d have access to their library and maybe some of the wizards there have studied spells like this,” he’s practically bouncing up and down by this point. “I’ll come with you! It’s been ages since I was in Skyrim proper, I’ve missed the freezing cold and fighting wolves every five minutes. You don’t mind, right?”

“Well no, obviously I don’t mind-”

-

He thinks Teldryn will be more annoyed at being left in Raven Rock again, but the mercenary merely shrugs him off. “We’ve been fighting all of Solstheim’s nasties more or less non-stop since you stepped off the boat. My aches have aches. Really, the break will be nice.”

Chry hands him the house keys again, “Enjoy.”

-

So he and Lucien land in Windhelm, ride to Winterhold. He keeps his eyes peeled out for a dragon the whole way there but as fortune, or maybe misfortune, would have it, none show up. That means no Miraak either.

Their last conversation ended mid-flow, he still remembers. He finally admitted his belief that he and Miraak had met before, and got confusion in return. That ought to be enough of an answer for him - no, they haven’t met. Obviously they haven’t, it’s physically impossible that they could have met before all this. That’s why he didn’t ask any sooner, because it was a stupid question. Even so there’s a little twist of something like disappointment that Miraak didn’t say _why yes we have_. Since Miraak always seems to know something he doesn’t he’d thought, maybe…

He tries to put it out of his mind as he approaches the College of Winterhold. Joining proves less troublesome than he thought it would, to the extent that Lucien is a touch disdainful of the barrier to entry compared to some university in the Imperial City - but he does quieten down when they take a look at the library. They don’t get to linger in it for very long though, as they’re both swiftly ushered onto lessons. Magical lessons are not really why he’s here, but he feels like he might have to make a token appearance to keep his membership as a student, so he goes.

A day or two of this, settling in, and avoiding the attention of the College’s resident Thalmor advisory - fortunately this particular Thalmor never met him at the embassy, nor seems to know of the not-insignificant number of his kin that Chry dispatched there. Even so Chry stays well clear of him, as it would seem everyone else in the College does. Aside from this though, he finds his introduction to the College as novel experience. He has his own quarters, which is completely unexpected. Maybe it’s silly to be pleased by this when he does in fact have his own house near Falkreath, but no-one has ever just shown him a bed and said _here, this one is yours._ The food is provided for him without charge. He is given a _uniform_.

Lucien informs him that it’s not a very good uniform. ”Look at these drab colours,” he sighs.

Chrysanthe wears it anyway, including on the field trip to Sarthaal. It’s an attempt to blend in, since he’s conscious that his usual heavy armour makes him look more like hired help than a fellow student. That and he’s under the impression Sarthaal will be an excavation, not a tomb delve. He later regrets his wardrobe choices when it turns into a tomb delve, because of course it does, and of course there are draugr that must be fought.

This all kicks off after a disconcerting visit from an altmer mage in odd robes, one who claims to be from the Psijic Order. Chrysanthe is ignorant of the name, but he doesn’t miss how the mage freezes time and space in place to deliver his ominous warning in private. Even with his limited knowledge of the arcane, he knows that’s Serious magic with a capital S. He doesn’t give Chrysanthe the chance to ask any questions before he is gone again.

“Are you alright?” Lucien says, as though nothing had happened at all. “You went all funny for a second.”

“Uh… yeah,” he says, staring at the spot the mage had occupied. He stepped into space and left it again just like Miraak does. “I saw… I’ll tell you later.”

He goes on to find even stranger things in the bottom of this bizarre tomb.

-

When _that_ weird trip is over he steps out of Sarthaal with the intention of hurrying back to the College to tell the Arch-Mage of all he found. Then his thoughts swing in a wildly different direction when he hears an all too familiar draconic roar from overhead.

“AHA!” Chry says, though it comes out as more of a shout, pointing skywards, “Lucien! Let’s go fight it!”

“Really?” Lucien looks at him wide-eyed. “It’s quite far up, I think if we duck behind those rocks it would probably pass without noticing us- no, no, you’re already waving your arms at it. Yep, it’s seen us. Alright then.”

-

Something dangerously close to relief floods him when he feels that now-distinct warp of Miraak stepping into Nirn. The fight had been a tough one (he really shouldn’t have worn mage robes) and he’s decidedly more frost-singed than he’d like to appear before his counterpart, but in truth vanity is the furthest thing from his mind. Apparently Miraak has no comment on it either.

“Met before,” is Miraak’s opening line, sharp and impatient like the words have been on the tip of his tongue since their last meeting about a week ago. “What do you mean, met before?”

“I feel like I know you,” Chry also picks up his side of the conversation at once. He didn’t deliberately seek out this dragon in the hopes of calling Miraak to him but he did, admittedly, run almost full sprint towards it at the possibility. His heart is still thudding with adrenaline and anticipation. “I know that I’ve heard your voice somewhere before. The sound of your name is familiar to me, but I can’t think why.”

Miraak abruptly exhales, a hissing sound against the mask, as though he expected to hear something else. “ _Bah_. That is a mere side effect of the control I exerted over Solstheim - control you were briefly under as well by my recollection.”

“ _No_ , this was before I came to Solstheim. I saw your name on a note held by one of the cultists you sent after me and it sounded familiar,” Chry insists.

“I sent you no cultists until after you meddled. I did not know you existed before you came to Apocrypha,” Miraak sounds, to Chry’s ears, a little huffy, as though this should be self-evident. “Which also answers your questions - we have not met before. Though I have wondered…”

“What?” Chry frowns. Miraak doesn’t answer immediately, staying in thoughtful silence. “Wondered what?”

There is a second more deliberation, which unfortunately is enough time for the man to start fading from view. “It is pointless to speculate,” he murmurs in parting.

“But-” It’s too late. Miraak is gone, leaving only an empty patch of snow where he stood with not so much as a footprint to remember him by. Again, these snippets of conversation bring Chrysanthe more frustration than clarity, and he grits his teeth hard.

“Um,” Lucien clears his throat nervously, “Did I… did I miss something?”

“The first half of the conversation, which started on Solstheim,” Chry answers, sounding pained even to his own ears. Then he remembers something. “Wait, you’ve never actually seen Miraak before before, have you? I’ve only ever had Teldryn with me for the last few dragon fights.”

“Oh no, I figured out that was him. Definitely, the tentacle-tastic mask and general aura of menace gave it away. Also, I take it that was him stealing a dragon soul from you?”

“Yeah,” Chry sighs, “He does that.”

-

There’s a lot to talk about on their ride back to the College: they discuss his mysterious mage visit, and the Psijic Order on the whole. They discuss the giant floating orb they found at the bottom of Sarthaal, and what it might mean. They discuss how unfair it is that the grouchy orismer librarian in the Arcanaeum will only let Lucien borrow one book at a time. And finally, they discuss Miraak.

Lucien’s voice is hesitant. “The things you said to him… about thinking you’d met before? I’m guessing you weren’t just saying that to confuse him.”

Atop his horse, he fidgets. He could’ve done without Lucien overhearing that conversation to be honest. It was private, meant for Miraak’s ears only, but it’s not Lucien’s fault that he was present. When Chrysanthe first returned to mainland Skyrim he took followers along on his adventures, but never to anywhere he thought a dragon fight was imminent - such as, say, one of the mountain shrines. Absorbing dragon souls always meant a weary explanation and answering a lot of baffled questions, and the thought of trying to explain the whole _Miraak thing_ was even more unappealing. Fortunately, though he’s unsure how deliberate it was on the man’s part, Miraak never actually appeared when he had company. Unfortunately, that means Chrysanthe often forgets that when his resident soul-thief appears, other people can see and hear him too.

“No, it’s - it’s true,” he confirms at last. “Do you remember when those cultists attacked us for the first time in Ivarstead? I know it was ages ago.”

“I remember. You used to say you thought you knew the name Miraak,” Lucien nods. “Could it be from… you know before, when you were…?”

 _A thrall._ No-one is around to overhear but they are still outdoors, so Lucien is kind to keep it vague. Chry shrugs, “It could be, but how would that have happened? And you heard him, he didn’t even know who I was back then. I always thought he sent those cultists after me, but I suppose they took it upon themselves to seek me out. Funny, if they hadn’t done that I would’ve had no idea anything strange was happening in Solstheim.”

“I guess once we went over for Dumzbthar we would’ve gotten entangled in his mind-control thing anyway,” Lucien points out, then shivers. “Brr, just remembering that creepy rhyme gives me the willies. That was some dark magic.”

“It was.” Objectively, that is true. Subjectively, and something he keeps to himself, is that given a millennia-long imprisonment in Apocrypha, Chrysanthe might’ve done the same.

-

Later, much later, when he’s turned in his report to Arch-Mage Aren and then turned in for the night, he finds himself woken up again by an endlessly enthusiastic imperial.

“Lucien, what time is it?” he groans. The living quarters are dark, save for the candle Lucien brought along and is waving all over the place in his excitement.

“Uh, three in the morning? Sorry sorry, I just couldn’t wait to tell you!” And before Chrysanthe can grumble a _this better be good,_ he continues: “So, funny thing about Psijics - turns out they know telepathy.”

Well that makes him sit up. “What?”

“Take a look,” Lucien waves a copy of _The Doors of Oblivion_ under his nose. “ ‘The Psijics and the Dwemer can (in the Dwemer’s case, perhaps I should say, could) connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a skill that is sometimes called telepathy’. Chry, this is exactly what we were looking for!“

He reads the passage of the book over and over again, with Lucien holding up his candle for light and the faint grumblings of other sleepers around him at their whispered conversation. The book doesn’t detail how the magic works at all, but it confirms its existence. It even confirms that it will work between Nirn and Apocrypha, for that is where one of the two mind-linked people detailed in the book ended up.

“It’s not much to go on,” Lucien says, as hushed as he’s able to go, “So I need to do more reading, but isn’t that weird? Psijics show up to chat with you and they’re exactly the people who could teach you what to do?”

“How do I get I contact with them though?” he murmurs back, “One of them came to me. It’s not like they have a headquarters we can visit.”

“They’re involved with that weird orb thingy from Sarthaal, so maybe pursue that? Give me more time though, I might be able to find something out for you.” His friend is practically hopping from foot to foot at this point. “Argh I’m far too wound up to sleep now, I’ll have to sneak back into the Arcaneum. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since my university days, this is so exciting!”

“Lucien-” and the words stick in his throat. His heart clenches, not in an alarming way, but with something warm and immeasurably fond. “Thank you, for all your help with this,” he manages at last. “You’ve really gone out of your way for me, and I haven’t thanked you properly for it yet.”

The imperial smiles. “I wouldn’t call it _out of my way_ , you know how much I love research. And I’m only repaying everything you did for me at Dumzbthar. But - you’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmph, the Lucien friendship. So wholesome. If you haven’t tried out his mod I can really recommend it.
> 
> So I played through the College of Winterhold storyline in-game - mostly to remind myself what the heck actually happens - and it is a pile of hot garbage let me tell you. I was tempted to throw it out altogether in favour of Chrysanthe creating his own form of telepathy through Shouting, but 1) he’s not powerful enough to do that sort of thing on the fly and 2) telepathy is quite strongly linked with Psijic lore, and the Psijics are a major part of the College storyline. Imo, the College would have been much more interesting if it had been linked with dragon priests, or old ghost magic, or basically anything except for the Psijics who have zip all to do with Skyrim, but it is what it is.


	5. Chapter 5

Research takes time and while he hits the books with Lucien to begin with, he soon realises that he’s only duplicating the work and would be better off leaving the researcher extraordinaire to his own devices.

So he finds ways to occupy himself, mostly by running errands for everyone around the College and Winterhold in general. He doesn’t love Winterhold - aside from it being just as cold as it sounds, the sparse population and empty shells of houses make the place feel especially lonely. As far as Chrysanthe can tell the Jarl would rather bitterly complain about the College destroying his hold than take any steps to fix it. That’s _another_ stupid leader he can add to the list actually, along with Riften, Falkreath, Dawnstar, Windhelm and Markarth. Will he ever meet a Jarl he likes? Well, Balgruuf in Whiterun is alright, he supposes.

He sticks around for lessons because while he’s here he may as well learn more about magic, but admittedly it’s more to pass the time than anything else. The only tutor who really has his enthusiasm is Collete and her restoration magic, and he’s often her only student; Onmund tags along occasionally but J’zargo is exclusively interested in destruction magic, and Brelyna would rather learn alteration. He’s pained to admit that he still feels out of place - while Collette insists that restoration is a valid school of magic and he’s certainly not disagreeing, there’s a world of difference between healing and flinging lightning bolts at people. Most people here prefer to do the latter. Chrysanthe, not so much.

Lucien reads and reads, but he’s swiftly approaching the same dead end he did with the dwemer. They both know the Psijics could teach Chrysanthe, but not how to get in contact with them.

Thankfully, just after he’s recovered some stolen books for the ornery Urag gro-Shub, one of the Psijics comes to him.

-

In the Arch-Mage’s quarters, a high elf in familiarly strange garb with a serene expression awaits him. Chrysanthe draws near, wincing as Ancano barks his queries from next to him, and then - everything and everyone in the room freezes in place, bar him and the newcomer, just as it did the last time a Psijic spoke to him.

The mage gives him a task to safeguard the orb he found in Sarthaal, now floating ominously with the College hall - the _Eye of Magnus_ , everyone has been calling it. That’s fine, but he has his own questions to ask: “You’re part of the Psijic Order as well, yes? I need to learn how to use telepathy. Can you teach me?”

“Telepathy is not a skill that should be taught idly,” the man replies, which is a very polite way of saying _absolutely not,_ “And there are far more pressing matters, besides.”

Chry shakes his head. This is the only lead he’s got and he can’t let it slip him by; if he doesn’t have this, he has nothing. A little firmer, he says: “I need to learn. I don’t plan to use it carelessly, if that’s your concern.”

“My concern is the Eye of Magnus, a chain of events that _you_ set into motion.”

“Entirely by accident. I’ll set things right if I must, but I want something in return.” He folds his arms, starting to grow impatient, “Can you teach me or not?”

Still, the Psijic remains calm, which is growing more annoying by the second. “They must be set right immediately. The Eye-”

In a moment he feels a flash of… something. Something hot, something angry. It’s like his soul just snapped its teeth. His Voice emerges before he can stop it: “ **FUS!** ”

Even with the magic holding everything in suspension the room still rattles, and the mage before him staggers back a little at the force Chrysanthe expels. He flinches, Chry notices. For all his time-warping magic and cool wisdom, he flinches.

“ _No_ ,” Chry hisses before the man can say anything. It comes out… deeper, than he intended. “You will answer my question. Can you teach me telepathy or _can you not?_ ”

“I _can_ ,” the man mutters at last, straightening his robes. Chrysanthe feels a strangely visceral victory in having got a straight answer at last. “Whether I _should_ is another matter.”

He taps his foot on the floor. “Teach me and I’ll solve your issue with the Eye. Don’t and I’ll seek the knowledge elsewhere - meaning I will leave Winterhold, and the Eye, behind.”

He gets a reproachful look. “The Eye is far more dangerous than you realise. It will bring catastrophe if it is not dealt with.”

“Then you’d better get someone to deal with it, _hadn’t you?_ ” Chry folds his arms. “Give me the knowledge of telepathy, and I will do as you ask without question. Those are my terms.”

A long moment of hesitation, then: “Fine. But only until _after_ the Eye is secured. Here is where you must begin…”

-

The next time he receives word from the Psijic Order is when he’s cleared the ruins of Mzulft, and one appears to… cheer him on, more or less. He supposes it’s a nice gesture, for them to confirm that he’s on the right path and that the world won’t blow up if he keeps pursuing it, or whatever is going to happen.

Despite this he doesn’t waste too much time with niceties: “I’m doing as you asked. Your colleague agreed to teach me telepathy in exchange, can you confirm that this is still the case?”

This Psijic is a bit more respectful than the last, and bows his head: “Quaranir agreed this, yes. There are some in our Order who think it most unwise, but he maintains it is a small price to pay for the safety of the Eye of Magnus.”

“Your Order is linked with fate, divination. Surely you don’t think our paths crossing was coincidental?” Chrysanthe points out. “You need me, and I need you. Could you not argue you’re destined to teach me this magic?”

“The machinations of fate are unknowable, even to the likes of us… but you make a good point,” the mage is reticent, but Chry thinks he can detect an undertone of impressed at his reasoning. Maybe that’s wishful thinking though. “More importantly, we’re teaching you because you asked _very firmly_ , as I understand it.”

He shuffles, trying not to be too embarrassed; admittedly, Shouting at the Psijic mage to get him to comply wasn’t particularly dignified. He’s always considered himself to have quite a deep well of patience, a long tether if you will - there aren’t many people that make him reach the end of it. He’s not unaware that his reaction was a little… _draconic_ , and not unlike the way Miraak speaks sometimes. A Dragonborn thing, perhaps? “Please tell your colleague I meant no offence. I must simply insist on a fair exchange.”

“And we shall grant it. But try to understand the reasons for his reluctance - there is a reason we do not teach telepathy lightly, and your own safety is the largest part of it.” A pause. “Particularly with the mind you intend to link with.”

He frowns. “Wait, you know who I want to talk to?”

He gets only a knowing smile, and then the mage fades away. Time reasserts itself, and from behind him he hears Lucien say, “Ooh I went all fuzzy for a second. Wait! Did the Psijics speak to you again?!”

-

He steps from Mzulft, ready to return to the Arch-Mage with his newest development. In one direction lies Windhelm, where he can stop before moving on to Winterhold. In the other direction the land stretches out before him, a mix of scrubland and hotsprings. The only rise around is a small hill in the middle of it all, and from the top of that he watches as a dragon takes flight into the air, circling territorially. Off in the distance as it is, it wouldn’t notice them if they headed straight for Windhelm.

Lucien sighs. “You’re going to make us fight it, aren’t you.”

He fidgets. “We should put it down. It could pose a threat to the surrounding area.”

“ _What_ surrounding area,” Lucien grumbles, and indeed there’s no settlements nearby that the dragon might terrorise, but Chrysanthe has already started walking in that direction so he follows. “Sometimes I think you just want Miraak to show up, really.”

Chrysanthe gives no comment.

-

When the dragon lies dead and Miraak appears, Chrysanthe is the one who opens this time: “Our conversation last time… you faded before it finished.”

The man crosses his arms over his chest. “I also said it was pointless to speculate.”

“Just tell me what you thought. Please.” He’s not begging. He’s not. He’s not far off, though.

Miraak stares at him but not for long - perhaps realising that he’s wasting precious time. “You are familiar to me too,” he admits at last, while Chrysanthe’s eyes widen. “We first met in Apocrypha, but it feels as though I have known you for longer. I thought, perhaps, you might be a reincarnation of one of the dragon priests I knew long ago.”

That hadn’t occurred to him. Could he be a dragon priest reborn? He certainly doesn’t feel like one. “Is that possible?”

“It’s not unheard of. So I looked up the fates of all my closest contemporaries, to see if one might have died in such a way that they could return. Every one of them swore loyalty to the dragons until the end, and were given more servitude as a reward. Bound as eternal slaves, the masked wraiths that you have fought before. None of them could have been reincarnated, for their souls never moved on.” Miraak makes a _tch_ noise, and shakes his head. “It was nonsensical anyway. You are Dragonborn, your soul is not that of a mortal. A waste of my efforts, and completely your fault.”

That catches him off guard. “My fault? How is that my fault?”

“My time would have been better spent on anything besides finding an answer to your inane suggestions!” Miraak’s voice sinks into a low growl, one that makes Chrysanthe’s heart shudder in his chest “I _researched._ I looked at _books_. Do you know how much I hate books, imprisoned by them as I am? I read and read. All for you.”

At once, his annoyance slips into trepidation. “Miraak…”

The golden-masked gaze is cast to one side. His voice is low and gravelly. “You make this more complicated than it needs to be.” And once the last whispers of the stolen dragon soul have gone to him, he too is gone.

Chrysanthe sighs, feeling a lot more mournful all of a sudden, and is once again startled when Lucien clears his throat. “You know, I thought Teldryn was kidding when he said you were giving Miraak funny feelings, but now I get it.”

Chry splutters wordlessly in response. “He said _what?!_ ” he manages at last, thoroughly flustered.

“ ‘Boss has been giving the Big Bad funny feelings’ quote-unquote. To which I said ‘oh don’t be silly Teldryn’ quote-unquote, but he was totally right.” Lucien squints at him. “Gosh. You know in all the time we’ve travelled together I’ve never seen you turn that shade of red before?”

Chrysanthe points a warning finger at the grinning man. “I will Fus-Ro-Dah you right into those hotsprings.”

“I know you’re not being serious, but as someone who’s witnessed your Fus-Ro-Dah literally turn people to ash, please don’t use it on me,” Lucien says. Then his tone turns into something altogether softer. “Chry? There is… something there, isn’t there?”

“I’m - I don’t know,” he admits, reluctantly. He thinks about his supposed nemesis often, but he keeps those thoughts firmly to himself. But he’s involved Lucien in all his grand plans to redeem Miraak, hasn’t he? It’s only fair that he knows why Chrysanthe really asked him to help. “I’m… drawn to him. I don’t know why, I just am.”

It feels foolish to admit it out loud. Miraak is _dangerous_. Anyone with a lick of common sense would tell him how unwise all of this is.

Maybe it’s telling that Lucien smiles encouragingly at him instead. “I get it. And you want to try and save him, right? If he got free right now it’d be bad news, but if you can reign him in a bit first there’d be _two_ Dragonborn in the world, and that would be _amazing_.”

“Right!” Wow, there’s a lot more relief flooding him than he expected. “That’s exactly it. Maybe I can’t reign him in, maybe it’s hopeless, but I have to try.”

“If anyone can it’s you. I think he’s drawn to you too,” The imperial rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you’re the most important person in his life.”

Well, there goes the warm glow of friendship he’d been experiencing. He rolls his eyes. “Stop teasing.”

“I’m being deadly serious!” his friend insists. “As Flavius Snr. used to say, let’s review the facts! He used to be a dragon priest with his own temple, so fair to say he was, to put it colloquially, a big deal. Yes?”

“Yes.” He shouldn’t really play along, but he’d like to see where this is going.

“So he strikes his deal with Hermaeus Mora and upsets all the dragons-” to put it lightly, as Lucien usually does, “-Almost gets killed by that Vahlok guardian guy, Mora whisks him off to Apocrypha and then… what? He spends by my count some _four thousand years_ just wandering around Apocrypha. Mora doesn’t even let him back into Nirn to keep championing the cause, he just keeps him around like a trophy he can brag about to the other daedric princes.” Then his tone grows graver, “The world moves on without him. History all but forgets his name. He goes from top of the pile to just - nothing. Not even a footnote. Right?”

He nods, swallowing. He vaguely knew all of this, but having someone lay it out brings about the gravity of the situation. If he thinks about it Miraak more or less kicked off the Dragon Wars, one of the most significant events in Skyrim’s history, and yet hardly any books mention him, none at all by name. It has to involve some meddling on Mora’s part, to have Miraak so thoroughly forgotten.

“Then, you come along and take a vested interest in his plans,” Lucien goes on, “Get yourself tangled up with a daedric prince to learn more about him, basically revolve your entire life around him-”

He gives a strangled sound, “I - I haven’t revolved my life around him!”

The other man just raises an eyebrow. “The whole reason we’re involved with this Eye of Magnus business is because of him. He’s why you go out adventuring, which is what you do all day every day.”

“Now - just wait a minute - I was adventuring before I knew of Miraak’s existence.”

“Moot point if you think you might’ve known about him before Solstheim,” Lucien points out cheekily. “Also you’re a _lot_ keener on adventuring than you used to be - you used to skirt around draugr ruins unless someone had specifically asked you to go in there, now you go in for fun.”

“It’s not for _fun_. I only go in because there might be word walls,” Chry mutters.

“And you want to find word walls because you want to become a better Dragonborn, because… Miraak.” At Chry’s pained look, Lucien takes on a softer tone. “I’m not saying this is a bad thing. But I’m just pointing out that you _do_ dedicate a significant amount of your time and effort to things involving him, however tangentially. Case in point-” he gestures at dragon skeleton cooling next to them. Then he gestures over at the ruins of Mzulft they left behind. Then he waves his arm in the vaguely northward direction of the College.

Chry sighs. He doesn’t have a good rebuttal, partly because he knows Lucien speaks the truth.

“Anyway to get back to my original point, Miraak goes almost forgotten and then you come along and get all up in his business,” Lucien digresses, tone bright and cheery once again. “I know you stomped on his plans and all, but I think he’s thrilled to bits at the attention, to be honest.”

That does get a smile out of him. “Well. He doesn’t seem all that thrilled at the moment.”

“Ahh, he just doesn’t know what to do with himself.” Lucien pauses, “You know I bet he’s out of practice with courtship, it _has_ been four thousand years. Do they have books on it in Apocrypha? They must do, right?”

“LUCIEN.”

-

Once he returns to the College things get, well, frantic. Ancano betrays them all, to the surprise of exactly no-one. The Arch-Mage perishes. Chrysanthe follows in his footsteps to find the Staff of Magnus. It lies within a draugr tomb, and while Chrysanthe really thought he’d seen all draugr tombs had to offer, the sight of a reanimated dragon skeleton pulling itself from the dirt to fight him makes his blood run cold. When he and Lucien finally kill the thing it offers no soul for him to take - or for Miraak to take, which is what he would quite like to happen because absurdly he feels it would bring him some comfort right now. But instead it collapses in a pile of inert bones, and the great chamber falls into eerie tomb-silence.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out that this is the final resting place, which is to say prison, of a dragon priest. He’s fought a few priests by now, each one an encounter he’d rather not repeat, but he never had one that directly speaks to him the way this one does. The words rush about him in a bone-chilling wind that saps his magicka - first in what he thinks might be Dovahzul, too fluently for him to understand, and then later switching to a common tongue: _You do not answer… Must I use this guttural language of yours?_

 _You are not Aren, are you?_ It asks as he draws closer. Then a repulsed snarl. _You are Miraak? What sorcery is this, that brings you back into this world?_

“Friendly reminder that Miraak betrayed the dragon cult and the other priests don’t like him very much,” Lucien mutters next to him.

“I _know_ Lucien,” he hisses back. “Why does he think I’m Miraak?”

It’s only when he’s face to face with the terrifying visage of the priest that the accusation is amended: _I see, you are not Miraak. But you are bound to him, and he to you. I will end your life, then, that it might bring him the pain he deserves._

The wraith very nearly succeeds, but he is victorious in the end. He wrenches both the Staff of Magnus and the fallen priest’s mask from the skeletal remains, but the entire encounter has left him thoroughly off-kilter. The fact that he’s injured and utterly exhausted at travelling from Winterhold to here without break doesn’t help.

Snatches of sleep on the way back see him through, until he’s back at the College with staff in hand. How he defeats the power-mad Ancano and saves the day is a bit beyond him to be honest.

-

Wobbly, pale and blood-splattered, Chrysanthe does not think he cuts a particularly inspiring figure, and yet the spokesperson of the Psijic group - Quaranir, the one he bargained for telepathy with - says: “You know the mages college could use a firmer hand to guide them. They would benefit from your leadership.”

Chry gives him a wide-eyed stare. “The mages college would benefit from the leadership of a _mage_ ,” he says, aghast. “I have no interest in leading it. I came here to study one specific thing, which you promised to teach me in exchange for - _that,_ ” he gestures dismissively at the great floating orb. Wondrous artifact it may be, but the thing has caused him far more hassle than it’s worth. He doesn’t even know what it _does_ , apart from threaten to blow up the world if someone twiddles too much with it.

Quaranir looks a touch disappointed. “A pity… but as you wish. Let me secure the Eye first, then I’ll meet you in the Frozen Hearth Inn within Winterhold.”

That gets his hackles up. “We had a deal. Don’t slip away from me now.”

There is a sigh. “If I wished to slip away I could do it as easily as I arrived here. I will keep my promise, but I cannot teach you _here_ while the Eye still causes interference, and _now_ while your mind is clouded by tiredness. Therefore it will be _there_ and _later_.”

He agrees, though mostly because he has no real choice in the matter. After words of parting the Psijics are gone, and so is the Eye of Magnus. Tolfdir tentatively asks if he’d like to be Arch-Mage (Lucien splutters wordlessly in the background at this). Chrysanthe politely declines. “The College would be much better served in your hands, I believe. I won’t be visiting often enough to make that kind of commitment.”

“What a place,” Lucien says as they make the slow, painful trudge down to Winterhold, where Chry intends to plant himself in the inn. “I can’t believe they were going to make you Arch-Mage. We’ve only been here for about two weeks.”

He finds himself in complete agreement. “I don’t plan on going back, to be honest. They can sort their own damn problems out.”

“Did you get your telepathy at least? We never really established how the Psijics were going to teach you.”

“One of them plans to meet me in the Frozen Hearth later. I hope that means tomorrow.” He’s already making plans for exactly what sort of vengeance he’ll wreak if Quaranir elects not to show up.

-

When he wakes the light is strange and blueish, too light to be night and too dim to be day. He sits up in his bed with a frown, wondering what it is about the room that has him unnerved, when he realises all of the dust particles are frozen mid-drift in the air. _Ah._

Slipping from the bed and padding into the main tavern hall, he finds a yellow-robed mage awaiting him. “Please, come,” says Quaranir. “I’ve ensured we won’t be disturbed for a time. Do you feel well rested enough?”

He’s there at once. “Yes. How will you teach me?”

“I’ve discussed it with my Order, and we feel the best way is to transfer knowledge of the spell to you directly - you will know how to use it, but not how to teach it to others. As a precaution, you understand.”

“If that is your wish.” Lucien will be disappointed, but on the other hand he’s not sure the world is ready for a Lucien that can talk to people across any distance. Chrysanthe would definitely have no peace and quiet.

“I would also urge you to use it wisely, and sparingly,” the Psijic continues, “Telepathy is more than a conversation that ignores the limits of distance - it is a connection of two minds, and one that can leave both parties vulnerable. For your own sake you must be careful what you share.”

Chrysanthe looks at him with great scrutiny. “One of your colleagues implied you already knew which mind I planned to connect with. Is that true?”

“It is the one you call _Miraak_ ,” Quaranir confirms. “His actions on Solstheim drew our attention, shall we say, but it is not something with which we would have intervened. I shouldn’t need to warn you, but… please, caution. A mind that survives four thousand years of Apocrypha is not one that should be probed idly.”

It’s a good point to make. Not one that would stay Chrysanthe’s hand, but still. “I understand. I’ll be careful, if you show me what to do.”

Quaranir steps closer. “Try to relax. This might feel a little strange.”

-

He sees a door, simple and wooden. It becomes a wooden gate, and then a wooden bridge across a gentle river, and on the other side he can see Quaranir standing there placidly.

 _To start with it is easiest to imagine a physical object that connects the two of you._ The mage’s lips never move but he hears the voice so clearly in his mind, as though he were stood right in front of him and not a good distance away. _Try to speak to me._

He opens his mouth but his lips won’t part. He tries harder, exerting his will. Under the bridge the river abruptly turns white and frothy with motion, and the bridge is coated with a great spray of water.

Quaranir hurriedly holds up a hand. _Gentler. Can you feel the river rushing underfoot? That is the transference of information, which flows both ways in equilibrium. The more you give of yourself the less control you will have over what you receive. Make yourself a tidal wave, and all you will do is drown._

He shrinks back a little, and tries again. _Hello?_ He’s not sure if the message went across. Again in a quieter voice, and the river slowly soothes again. _Hello._

_Much better._

He smiles. _That wasn’t so hard._

He gets a pointed look. Bizarrely he can feel it more than see it; it’s as though it had crossed his own features, and not Quaranir’s. _That’s because I’m doing most of the work. Given a decade or two of practice you might be able to communicate with whoever you see fit, but for now it will only work on your Miraak, and only because there is already a strong bond between you._

 _A strong bond_ , he repeats thoughtfully. He knows that bond of course, he can feel it, but he doesn’t understand it. Faced with a seemingly all-knowing order of mages, the temptation to ask is too great: _What do you know of that? Miraak theorised I was a reincarnation. Another dragon priest mistook me for Miraak himself._

He feels uncertain. It takes a moment for him to realise that the feelings are not his own, but the other man’s. _Reincarnation is not the word I would use. It is… difficult to explain, and better for you to work out on your own._

He really would just prefer Quaranir just tell him. Evidently he transmits that feeling, unintentionally at that, for he gets an apologetic pang in response. _It isn’t my intention to frustrate you Dragonborn, but anything I can tell you would only leave you more confused. For now we should focus on trying to speak with your Miraak. I will supervise your first connection, and once you have succeeded you should not need my help again._

Well, he’s definitely on board with that. _What do I do?_

_I would like you to picture a door, or a gate. Some entranceway between you._

He does start with the same wooden door he’d seen with Quaranir, but it quickly occurs to him that it was nondescript and inoffensive, a link that could be established with anyone, even a stranger. He needs something more personal - and furthermore, a plain wooden door is completely alien to Miraak. He needs something belonging to Apocrypha. He needs…

Ah, but there is a vision he can call upon all too easily, sometimes not entirely willingly, late at night when he wishes to just fall asleep instead. Darkness, but for his own flickering magelight. Silence, but for the ambient slither of Apocrypha. Cool not-metal under his palms, twisted like wrought iron into complex shapes.

He can picture it so clearly that Quaranir’s echoing thoughts catch him off-guard: _That was swifter than expected, well done. Now try to change it to a bridge, and we will call him to the other side of it._

His lower lip worries between his teeth as he pictures it: made of the same material as the wall, one of those Apocrypha bridges that unfurls before him like a lazy tendril. But it shifts and wavers in his vision, and suddenly he’s before the wall again.

 _Concentrate, Dragonborn. It may take a few tries_ , Quaranir coaxes.

 _I-_ he tries again. A bridge, curling outwards… but it’s as though something keeps pulling him back. The same wall in front of him, lit by the soft blue-white glow of his magelight. _I can’t - it won’t-_

His hand, pressed up against that wall, shifts slightly, and his fingers slip between the pattern gaps. He feels gloved fingertips pressing to his own, pinpricks of sensation. Then his stomach drops when he realises that he really _can_ feel fingertips.

**What is this?**

Miraak’s voice is utterly unmistakable. It is a deep and resounding echo inside his skull, spoken with a clarity and force that he hasn’t heard before- no, heard _since. Since, since…_ since when? Chrysanthe gasps but it won’t come out, as though the very breath has been stolen from him. He tries to pull his hand back from the wall, but it won’t go. He can see a dark silhouette on the other side, and feel fingers press insistently to his.

He feels a note of panic, and abruptly realises that it’s _his_ yes, but it’s also _Quaranir._ He can’t see the Psijic but he can feel him nearby, a hurried and harried feeling: _I - this isn’t - he wasn’t supposed to answer yet-_

 **Where are you?** Miraak says, and oh gods Chrysanthe did not know it would feel like this. It’s almost the exact same sensation that the dragon priest in Labyrinthian gave him when he spoke, draining him of his magicka, leaving him weak-kneed and empty. **You are with me and yet not with me. What have you done?**

 _We must control this,_ is spoken low and urgent in his ear, but he can barely hear it over Miraak’s words echoing and echoing. What have you done, what have you done, what have you done. _Give much and you receive much, remember? You must give less of yourself._

 _I’m not giving anything, he's just taking it!_ he responds desperately.

 **Take?** Is the murmur he hears inside his mind, his chest, his mouth. **Yes, you have come to offer yourself to me. Your soul is mine to take.**

_Wait - that’s not why I’m here-!_

He can’t help a cry, one terrified to his own ears, as the gate between them abruptly shatters, great shards of metal-bone-glass crumbling to the empty void of the floor. The hand that was pressed to the wall is suddenly pressed to Miraak’s own, the rough material of his glove. The fingers that curled into the gaps of the gate now firmly interlace with his own and _grip_ , clenching down on his knuckles like a vice.

Tearing his eyes away from his hand, he is faced with Miraak looming in front of him, as tall as he is but seeming so much bigger, so much more. The unforgiving visage of that cold golden mask leans in, almost pressed nose to nose with him. **Give me your soul. Give it to me, and I will be free.**

 _That is not why I’m here!_ Why did he think this would work, why why why? Miraak has a mind that persevered in a realm specifically designed to drive mortals mad. Chrysanthe has a mind that is altogether more feeble, already broken once from being a thrall.

 **Thrall,** Miraak repeats slowly and Chrysanthe realises that _oh hell_ thinking about it is letting Miraak see it too. **A cave and a man in black. Who is this?**

 _That isn’t for you to know! Get out of my head!_ It feels as though he screams the words. Perhaps he did, for he sees Miraak suddenly rear back as though from a deafening sound, though their fingers remain interlocked. No no, this isn’t what he wants. If he hurts Miraak, Miraak will only hurt him back. He withdraws, tries for something quieter and calmer, though he knows it’s still tinged by desperation. _That is not for you to know. I only came to speak with you, I have found a way for us to talk across planes._

He sees, hears and feels Miraak’s sneer. **I see, you are guided by the pathetic little mage trying to cut our conversation short. Tell him to leave. This is between you and I.**

He can’t hear Quaranir at all he realises, not over the thunderous voice of Miraak. He strains his ears, and only then does he hear it faintly, like a rush of water far away: _Let go! You have let him get too close, you must let go!_

 _Ah-_ He turns back and tries to pull his hand free, but Miraak grips him still, their fingers firmly tied together. _Let me go!_

**I will not.**

_Take your hand away_ , he hears Quaranir louder now he’s listening for him. _Do not ask him, he will not free you. You must will it so._

Panic panic panic coursing through him, it belongs to him - it belongs to Quaranir - it belongs to _Miraak_ he realises with a sudden gasp. _You’re afraid. I’m going to leave you and you’re afraid._

 ** _Praal, faaz nah!_** Is almost shouted in response. He briefly thinks it actually _is_ a Shout, but after a moment realises it was a mere string of curses in Dovahzul instead. **You will stay because I command it!**

Miraak sweeps him in closer still; it feels as though they should be pressed flush against each other but there’s the most minute of gaps still between them - one that represents figurative miles of distance he realises. Different planes, different layers of reality. But their hands are touching, and Miraak _will not let him go._

 _You must pull free,_ Quaranir pleads in his ear, but it’s mixed in with a jumble of _why did I let this happen_ and _what have I done_. Whose thoughts are those, Quaranir’s or his? _Please Dragonborn, you cannot let him keep you here. You must pull free._

He looks, wide-eyed, back at Miraak. The man is leaned in as far as it is possible to lean in, and only that tiny but all-encompassing gap keeps them apart. When Chrysanthe tries to snatch his hand back Miraak holds him even harder, and the two of them wrestle for control, a sheer battle of wills-

He looks at his hand and sees his ring, the gold band with the sapphire, dragged slowly up his ring finger as Miraak’s own clenching fingers struggle to maintain grip on him. A brief pang of panic seizes him: _Not my ring, I need it-_

It’s a sacrifice he has to make, he realises.

With one final move he wrenches his hand free, and he wakes up.

-

He feels himself lose his balance immediately, though someone reaches out to grab him by the shoulders and steadies him. His first words are not _what happened_ or _where am I_ but instead, “I’m sorry. Quaranir, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“It should _not_ have been like that,” Quaranir mutters, though he sounds more disappointed than angry. “The fault is mine for underestimating. It was your first attempt, I thought you would struggle to create a connection, not forge one so strong you could hardly break it. Auri-El, you are both _Dragonborn_ , why did I think you would work like everyone else…”

“What was it supposed to be like?” he asks blearily as the mage helps him onto a nearby bench. Time is still frozen in place, not one second has ticked by since starting all of this.

“You would create a bridge. If you were fortunate your recipient would appear on the other side of it, but it would take a few tries for you to be able to hear each other,” Quaranir explains, grim-faced, a far cry from his usual serene countenance. “Not only could you see and hear each other, you _touched._ That sort of connection should take years, decades…”

That all sounds like it should be a good thing, but the Psijic’s tone says otherwise. Chrysanthe swallows heavily and looks at his hands, only to startle. His right hand, the one that bears his ring, is unadorned. He knows he was wearing it when he went to bed and when he got back up again to speak with Quaranir, but now it is missing.

Quaranir follows his gaze and gives a soft sound. “I dare say it is in Apocrypha now. More proof of how reckless this was.” His voice is thick with regret. “You should return to bed, Dragonborn. Telepathy is a strain on one’s body and that encounter was… intense. It is important that you rest, and it will give me time to answer to my superiors.”

“Are you going to take the power back off me?” he whispers. He can’t pretend his tone is anything less than frightened, for right now he feels every bit the trembling child. He finds though that he is as anxious at the thought of losing his telepathy as he is about using it again - he worked so hard for this ability, he can’t stand the thought that it was all for nothing. Even if it went, in a word, disastrously.

“Unlikely. What is given cannot be returned,” Quaranir says wearily. “We will see what the Order decides. Go, sleep.”

Too much has been taken out of him to protest. He staggers back to bed, asleep before he notices time reassert itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Praal, faaz nah!_ \- roughly, “Lies, damn you!”
> 
> -
> 
> So, Lucien has some hilarious (and very valid) exclamations of disbelief when they turn around and make you Arch-Mage after about three days of you being a student. For story purposes I padded the plot out to be a little longer, but in-game the pacing is pretty much nonexistent. Blech, the Winterhold College. It won’t feature much going forward.
> 
> Hooray, telepathy at last! This of course is completely divergent from the playthrough and means more conversations between Chrysanthe and Miraak, though as you can tell it’s very, very tentative ground.


	6. Chapter 6

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” comes Lucien’s cheerful voice.

He blinks blearily, dragging himself upright when he sees Lucien perched on the end of his bed. There’s no windows to the outside world in the Frozen Hearth’s rooms - all the better for keeping out the cold - but he can see bright light streaming under his closed door, and the buzz of the tavern proper on the other side tells him it’s a new day.

It does not take long for the events of last night, or whenever it was, to return to him. His stomach sinks.

“It’s mid-morning, you slept in! Not that I can blame you after the College fiasco yesterday,” his friend chatters, unaware of the crisis happening next to him. “Should we take it easy for a few days? We’re waiting on that Psijic contact of yours to show up so I suppose we need to hang around here for a bit.”

“He already arrived,” Chry mumbles. His own voice catches him off-guard - it’s rough and raspy, like he spent the night screaming. He sort of did. “In the middle of the night, we spoke.”

“Really? That’s good… news…?” Lucien trails off, looking at him quizzically. He can practically see the gears turning (and it is all too fitting to imagine some dwemer mechanism powering that lateral brain of his) as the man pieces things together. Chrysanthe’s voice, the dark circles he just knows he has under his eyes, and morose expression likely tell most of the story. “Did something happen?”

So Chrysanthe tells him.

“Oh. Oh Chry,” Lucien says when he’s done. Chrysanthe has maintained his calm throughout his telling, but in the end it’s Lucien’s soft, sad voice that does him in. Before he knows it his shoulders have hunched over, and a truly undignified sound escapes him - he’d call it a sob but it’s even wetter and more pained than that. “O-oh gosh, alright. Ahh, what do I do? I’m going to get you tea and a sweetroll. Sweetrolls fix everything. Stay right there.”

Sweetrolls don’t fix everything, but he does feel better once he’s had one. Lucien hovers nervously: “Feel any better?”

“Not really,” he responds truthfully, but at least he’s not teary anymore. “Sorry Lucien. It’s been a long few days.”

“And you were counting on a breakthrough at the end of it, right?” Lucien supplies gently. “I know it’s hard to see the bright side, but the telepathy thing _did_ work. Not in the way you hoped for, but at least the Psijics actually taught you, and you were able to talk without Hermaeus Mora supervising you.”

He gives a shuddered exhale. “Yes, but Miraak completely overwhelmed me. It was like that dragon priest at the bottom of Labyrinthian, only even worse.” He looks down at his hands, which reminds him of another thing he’s lost. “…And he took my ring.” It feels stupid to be upset over that in the grand scheme of things, but he _is_ upset. He hasn’t taken it off since he first woke up - he’s always been afraid that without it he would become mindless again. Now without it on his finger he feels very vulnerable indeed.

“Seriously? Oh goodness, you’re right!” the scholar exclaims, noticing the missing ring also. “Object transference through telepathy? How is that even possible?”

“It went a bit beyond telepathy. He grabbed my hand and pulled me around, so there was at least a part of us that was occupying the same space…” He bites his lower lip. “I really don’t think it was supposed to work that way. Quaranir didn’t think so. He regretted teaching me, I could feel it.”

Speaking of, he later finds that Quaranir isn’t around as he’d hoped, but on enquiring with the tavern owner it transpires that he left a message: “Aha, a fella in funny robes was asking for you. He said ‘ I need longer, I’ll meet you tonight ‘. It was a bit ominous, truth be told.”

“Thank you, I’ll return later then,” he says, then bids Lucien step outside with him. Once they’re out of earshot of anyone else, he explains the plan he’s finally settled on: “I’d like to go to Mount Anthor, it’s not too far. I’ve killed a dragon from there before, but a new one will have taken roost by now.”

“Do you think Miraak will appear? I take it you’d like him to.”

It’s a bit embarrassing that his intentions are so transparent, but there’s not a lot of point in pretending otherwise anymore. “I’d like to give him a telling off. But I should discuss what happened, he might be calmer next time if he fully understands what I was trying to do.”

“There will be a next time then?”

He shrugs hopelessly. “There has to be, right? Otherwise it was all for nothing.”

So they trudge their way up to the mountain specifically to fight the one atop it. Not for the first time he wonders if any of the dragons he fights _realise_ they’re mere conduits for him to speak with his rival. He’s killed… he’s not sure how many in total, but by his count this is the ninth one that Miraak has taken from him. The masked man does appear, of course; he steps into Nirn so swiftly Chrysanthe wonders if he was poised somewhere in Apocrypha, waiting to snatch up the opportunity. He doesn’t even have a comment on the fact that Chrysanthe has been here before, that he gains nothing from going to Mount Anthor again except a cursory amount of loot, and the chance to speak with Miraak once more.

Rather, even with the winds of the stolen soul still swirling about him, he cuts right to the chase: “Would you like to explain yourself?”

Chrysanthe takes a deep breath. He prepared for this, mentally rehearsed the whole way up the mountain: “I connected to you with telepathy. I wanted a way for us to talk without Hermaeus Mora listening in. If Mora hasn’t yet confronted you about what happened I assume it was a success, and he doesn’t know that we spoke.” Given that Miraak is still breathing, he’s sure that Mora doesn’t know. The prince of knowledge would be enraged to discover his underlings circumventing him.

“It was powerful magic.” Miraak’s voice slips into something deeper and raspier. It sounds _covetous_ , and it makes Chrysanthe shiver with fear and… something else. “We did more than just talk. I touched you.”

“You grabbed me, you mean,” Chry corrects, trying to sound stern rather than nervous. His right hand curls and uncurls, the absence of its usual adornment keenly felt. “Do you have my ring?”

“Yes.”

“I want it back.”

The other man leans, or possibly looms, towards him. He has the distinct impression that if Miraak could reach out and grab Chrysanthe right now, he would. “Then you will have to connect with me again.”

“If I do will you behave yourself this time?”

The time permitted for their conversation has come to an end, for Miraak’s form begins to fade into nothingness. It feels doubly constraining now that he’s been able to speak to Miraak without limits. Even more frustrating is that Miraak avoids his question once again, and merely leaves with: “Speak with me again, Dragonborn. I will await you.”

Lucien, who was there of course, keeps uncharacteristically wordless for a little while, perhaps sensing that Chry needs some time to silently fume. He does eventually pass comment when they’re on their way back: “Is it me or was he more intense than usual?”

By this point Chrysanthe’s annoyance has wound down into exasperation. “All that time in Apocrypha with limited company has left him… it’s like he doesn’t have an off switch. And he’s not used to interaction beyond his control, so if he feels uncertain he reacts by trying to dominate it.”

Lucien hmms thoughtfully. “I know I joked about it before, but I really do think you’re the centre of his world right now. Just, uh, being the centre of _Miraak’s_ world is less romantic and more pants-wettingly terrifying.”

“He is frightening,” Chry mutters in agreement, rubbing at his empty ring finger. Despite this, he also knows he can’t stay away. Even if contacting Miraak again is quite obviously a bad idea, he can’t stay away.

-

The hike to and from Mount Anthor takes up most of the day, and then they return to the Frozen Hearth late in the evening. He finds it practically empty save for a familiar mage, calmly waiting, and the world slows to a blue-tinged stop as he paces over.

Chry glances over at Lucien, frozen in place. “Is there any way he can be involved too? I’ll only have to explain it to him later.”

Quaranir shakes his head slightly. “I do this to give us privacy, and because my involvement with this world should be minimal. I can speak with you, but interacting with a second person causes too much… room for error.”

“Alright,” he sighs. No point in arguing. “What did your Order say? Are you going to take the ability away from me?”

“No, what is done is done. It was ill-advised, but… by our calculations it brought no adverse effects to the flow of fate and time. Ultimately, that means there is no reason that the Psijic Order should intervene any further.”

Chrysanthe finds himself relieved but also decidedly surprised to hear that. No effect on fate? Telepathy is a game-changer for his relationship with Miraak, or so he thought. To have him move from the path of killing Miraak to the path of saving him, would that not change future events significantly?

Maybe that means he fails, he realises with a sinking feeling. Maybe it means that his efforts with telepathy change nothing at all.

“I understand that you will contact him again despite what happened,” Quaranir continues. “I cannot and will not stop you, but please, _please_ use caution. Your intentions may be good, but his intentions towards you were nothing but dark.”

He’s having a bit of an existential crisis on whether he should be using it at all, but going round and round with his thoughts will get him nowhere. Also he takes exception to that last statement: “They were, but he’s driven by desperation. You felt how afraid he was at me leaving.” Only puzzlement crosses Quaranir’s face, and Chry frowns. “You must have felt it. You were linked in as well.”

“I felt nothing from him, he shut me out completely. It is likely you felt your own fear, and mine at that.”

“I’m sure I felt it,” he insists. “Give much and receive much, you said? I gave him too much of myself, so I was receiving it too.”

“Giving too much is what allowed him to seize control of the situation,” Quaranir murmurs. “You must realise how dangerous that was. He would have bound you to him forever, if he could.”

 _Of course he would have bound me, he’s been in isolation for millennia,_ Chry wants to shout, but he stays silent. Arguing is pointless, Quaranir has already formed his beliefs of Miraak - and if Miraak did indeed deny anyone but Chrysanthe access to his thoughts, thereby giving only his actions to judge by, no wonder Quaranir thinks that’s all there is to him. The monk is not _wrong_ per se; Chrysanthe may be a hopeless believer but he’s not a total idiot. He’s well aware that Miraak is a dark soul, but he is certainly not _nothing but_.

“ _Can_ he do that? Bind me forever?” Chry asks instead, “As a serious question.”

“He can certainly bind you for a very long time if you let him. Meanwhile your physical form would waste away until death.”

“Can he take my soul from me through telepathy? He threatened it.”

“I do not… _think_ that he can,” the mage says cautiously. “I say nothing in complete certainty, but in principle… telepathy is an extension of one’s will. If he tried to syphon the soul from you, you would lose the power to maintain your telepathy before he could finish his spell. He would self-sabotage, as it were.”

“So that’s something.”

“A small thing. He can still cause you significant distress, and potentially physical harm. I do not believe he can kill you directly, but you could easily die while he traps you outside your body. That might start to erode your mind as well.” Quaranir gives Chrysanthe a long and careful look. “Truthfully, I am surprised to find you unscathed from your first encounter. Anyone else clashing with a will that dominating should have been left feeble-minded.”

That gives him pause. “Really?”

“Indeed. I suppose because you are another Dragonborn… yes, that must be it.”

 _He sounds unsure, but why?_ Chrysanthe thinks. A monk of the all-knowing Psijic Order should have all the answers… shouldn’t he? But Quaranir has sounded unsure through most of this conversation. Again, he recalls that two Dragonborn have never interacted throughout history, and so there is no precedent that the Psijics can draw upon. He was under the impression they could see the future as well as the past, though maybe that’s less true than he’s been led to believe.

“Of course this does not make you immune to consequences,” Quaranir says firmly. “Unless you wish to end up comatose, it is imperative to set yourself rules. Keep your distance, do not let him touch you. Do not speak with him every night, though I am sure he will ask you to do so. Doing this too often will take its toll on you, you must allow yourself time to recuperate.”

“Keep my distance, not too often,” Chry repeats. “What else can I do?”

“Always remember that _you_ are contacting _him_ , not the other way around. He can seize control of the link, as he did when he broke your barrier, but you have the ability to sever it if you must. That isn’t ideal, but prolonging a hostile connection will leave you far worse off.” The monk contemplates further, but evidently arrives at no other suggestions. “That is all. After this I will not supervise you any further - I have crossed enough boundaries as it is.”

“Thank you for your help,” Chrysanthe says quietly, and watches Quaranir take his leave, permanently this time. Then time unfreezes, and he must explain everything _again_ to Lucien.

-

He could and should sleep at the inn and wake prepared for what the next day brings. Instead he finds himself wound up from his final talk with Quaranir and unable to find rest.

He needs to try and speak with Miraak again. He’s aware that this is against the advice he’s just been given, but he can’t _not_ attempt it again as soon as possible. He feels well rested enough and he’s better informed on what to expect this time. Privately, he also wonders if Quaranir’s absence for this attempt might be a good thing - Miraak did not react well to a third person being present last time, and it may have exacerbated the tension.

He informs Lucien, because that’s the sensible thing to do. They decide they should be away from the Frozen Hearth just in case anything _weird_ happens, and leave their cosy inn rooms in favour of a tent set up on the edge of Winterhold. Far enough to be private, not so far as to draw danger. He’s unsure what else to really expect during and after his telepathy - last time he found himself dizzy and weak, so he opts to sit cross-legged on the tent floor with Lucien sat opposite him, poised to write observational notes. He sets out food, water and healing potions in case he needs them on waking.

“It honestly feels like you’re about to try Skooma or something,” Lucien jokes, mostly to hide his own nervousness.

“Similar levels of personal danger as I understand it.” Chry smiles, but it’s a little weak. “Alright, here goes…”

-

A wall is a gate is a bridge is a - is a wall - is a bridge - is a wall-

 _You said you would behave,_ he thinks frantically, pushing and pushing to keep Miraak further away. He is on the other side of one of the great curling bridges of Apocrypha. He is across a short hallway. He is a silhouette on the other side of the wall again. Each time he puts distance between him and Miraak he can feel the man push back, re-shaping their settings in resistance to Chrysanthe.

 **I made you no such promise.** There is a stark difference in how Quaranir spoke with him and how Miraak does. Again he feels his strength being sapped as the words echo inside his head like a hymn in a cathedral. **You came to me just as I asked, why do you now push me away? Let me come closer.**

 _I will not have a repeat of last time._ It’s no good, he can’t keep Miraak on the other side of the bridge as he’s trying. He relents and allows the formation of the wall between them as it was before - better to permit this and focus his efforts on keeping it in place. He can see Miraak on the other side, hands pressed up against the wall, but Chrysanthe keeps his own firmly by his sides this time.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. **Give me your hand. I want to feel you.** When Chrysanthe doesn’t relent: **How will I return your ring if I cannot touch you?**

 _You will only grab me again._ He keenly wants his ring back, but he knows bait when he sees it. He and Miraak do need to touch to transfer an object again, of course, but he doesn’t trust Miraak to restrain himself one bit. Ruefully, he must admit that the ring is a loss for now. _You cannot take my soul through our link, just so you know. Trying would end our connection. You only have the means to take it from me if I’m in Apocrypha, and Hermaeus Mora allows us to meet._

He feels an expected degree of disappointment from Miraak at this, but it’s not as frustrated as he thought it might be. Presumably his own caution during this conversation has shielded his mind from the brunt of Miraak’s emotions. **Then come to Apocrypha. Why do you delay? Why do you strive to become stronger if you make no plans to fight me?**

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t want to fight Miraak, that doesn’t mean he won’t end up fighting Mora, or one of Mora’s other champions. _I’m not going to fight you, that doesn’t mean I’m giving my soul to you willingly._ Frustrated confusion, not his. _Why do you think that I would?_

 **You have acknowledged that I am the superior Dragonborn. It is natural that you would offer yourself in service to me.** The words are spoken very confidently, but he feels a flickering note of uncertainty as well. It is swiftly smoothed over with self-assuredness, the man denying himself any second guesses to his statement.

Chrysanthe, meanwhile, feels an almighty sense of annoyance, and makes sure Miraak can feel it too. How can Miraak still misinterpret after all this time? _No! Is this so hard to understand? I don’t want to serve you, I want to save you!_

A flash of anger, pride, and an unwillingness to admit to any sort of weakness. **I do not need to be ‘saved’. I can save myself, and almost did before your intervention. If you seek amends for what you did to me, give me your soul so that I might escape.**

 _That’s servitude. I have no plans to sacrifice myself for your sake,_ Chry snaps back, two dragons clashing. _I will free you if you are worthy of freedom. I would try to free you now if you didn’t treat people as objects to be used and threaten to bring even more bloodshed to Skyrim! I’m trying to make you see otherwise!_

**You are not my saviour!**

_I am not your servant!_

Things change very suddenly.

The wall is no longer between them, yanked away before Chrysanthe can rebuild it. Rather it lies behind him, as he discovers when the unobstructed figure of Miraak surges forward, and Chrysanthe instinctively backpedals. He backs straight into the wall, so roughly that it practically winds him, as though it were a real and solid object. It isn’t really there - but his attempts to try and correct the situation dissipate when Miraak steps into his space. His hands slam into the wall either side of Chrysanthe’s head, forearms braced and visage looming. There’s no light for him to block out, but nonetheless Chrysanthe feels that he has been cast into a particularly dark shadow.

 **Then what are you?** Miraak hisses lowly at him, serpentine. **If you are not my servant,** **what are you to me?**

He’s far, far too close. Chry swallows, tries to put a physical gap between them, but he can’t seem to do it. Once more the other Dragonborn’s will overwhelms his own; his only concession is that Miraak isn’t touching him, though something tells him that if he could, he would. It’s Chrysanthe’s last bastion that he cannot.

 **You come to Apocrypha because I am there. You learn secret magic so we may speak. You slay dragons just to call me.** Each sentence feels like a new damnation. **Why would you beckon me like this, if you didn’t want me to own you? What do you want from me?**

He doesn’t have a good answer. He offers no words in response, though he’s certain Miraak can feel the panic rolling off him in waves. Maybe Miraak likes that, making him scared, but he can’t feel any sort of smugness or victory from the man. It’s more… the feeling equivalent of a flat buzz in his ears. A feeling that does not know what it should be.

Stonily cold, Miraak says, **Who is the man in black, in the cave?**

Shakily, Chry replies, _Why is that relevant?_

 **You thought of him as your master. Do you serve him, then?** Anger creeps back into Miraak’s tone. If he thought of the younger Dragonborn as a servant, it must annoy him that Chrysanthe might be sworn to someone else entirely. But he knows what Miraak’s stung pride feels like, and this is something else, something he can’t interpret.

He could tell him. It’s not as though he needs to keep his past a secret. But if Miraak wants information from him, that’s leverage he can use. _Why should I tell you anything?_

A seething snarl. **I command it.**

_You don’t command me. I’ll tell you if you stop behaving like a savage._

**You-!** Miraak hisses and it’s so visceral that Chrysanthe feels like he might have said it between his own gritted teeth. **Is it at his behest? Everything you have done for me, all your dedication, was it all on the order of another? Do I mean nothing to you after all?**

His eyes widen. _Ah. That’s why you’re so upset._

**I have every right to be upset over the loss of something that is mine. And do not - do not _dare_ claim you are not mine, not with how you have tied yourself to me. How did you expect me to react?**

The conviction behind the words leave Chrysanthe breathless - less in a swooning way, more in a terrified one. He’s abruptly reminded of Lucien’s words about him being the centre of Miraak’s world, and how this isn’t necessarily a good thing.

 **Fear. I frighten you.** Miraak laughs but it’s a hollow, bitter sound. **Fine. Good. I am Dragonborn, first of my kind, and all should fear me. I am not a thing for you to ‘save’ so you can feel better about yourself, or because someone else set you to the task.**

Chry’s heart wrenches in his chest, only oh gods, he’s not sure whose heart it really is. _I would explain if you would just treat this as a conversation and not as a fight!_

 **Just tell me! Why will you not just do what I want?** Underneath that rage, that bile and loathing, he can feel something worse. There’s a great chasm of despair and terrible bone-aching loneliness. He can feel it, Miraak can feel that he feels it, and Miraak tries to clamp that chasm shut so that it might never be revealed to anyone. But it’s too late, it’s too vast. **Give me what I want. Let me touch you again, stay with me, do not leave me-!**

Insane as it might sound, he wants to do it. Whether that’s the sheer strength of Miraak’s will warping Chrysanthe's desires to match his own… or his own cursed bleeding heart that can’t abide seeing someone imprisoned. A part of him actually wants to stay, if it would just soothe the pain he’s faced with.

But he remembers Quaranir’s warnings. Better to sever, than stay forever.

So he squeezes his eyes shut, and wills himself no longer here.

-

“Gahh! By the Divines you’ve been sat perfectly still for an hour and then you spring into action like that, you scared the _life_ out of me-”

He doesn’t hear the rest of what Lucien has to say, for he pitches forward to slump on the tent floor, and just _weeps._

-

It’s so bad that Lucien runs all the way back to the Frozen Hearth to buy him more sweetrolls. He first timidly suggests that maybe they should both go as sitting somewhere warmer and comfier than the tent might help, but Chrysanthe can’t think of anywhere he wants to be less than in the company of other people.

So he ends up wrapped up in blankets and full of comfort food. He can barely recount what happened without becoming shaky again. Objectively, it doesn’t sound that bad… he and Miraak spoke, Miraak took control of the situation _again_ and backed him up against the wall. They argued over Chrysanthe’s intentions, things got out of hand, he pulled himself away. It’s not that bad. But it certainly feels like it.

“I thought I’d made _progress_ ,” he despairs into his third canteen of tea - Lucien has quite sensibly not allowed him near any alcohol. “After all our post-dragon talks it seemed he had a grudging respect for me and might listen to what I had to say. I thought I was getting through to him, but he’s so, so… it’s so bleak, in his head.”

“Four thousand years of loneliness, huh?” Lucien says softly.

“Gods, and that’s just it,” Chrysanthe continues miserably. “He’s not _evil._ He’s not _good_ by any means, but the reason he did all those terrible things on Solstheim was to escape _that_. If he were really just malevolent I could accept that I can’t do anything about it and kill him as a favour to the world, but I can’t. I just can’t.” He runs his fingers nervously over his mouth. He’s tired and he feels awful and _his ring is still missing_ and this is too much, far too much. “What do I do? I can’t kill him, I can’t keep him trapped there, I can’t let him go free. What am I supposed to do?”

The scholar wrings his hands. “I really wish I had an answer. I don’t, but I promise I’ll support you whatever you decide.”

“I can’t decide anything,” he mumbles. “Why the hell am I Dragonborn, of all people? I’m terrible at taking action, I haven’t even been to Alduin’s Wall-” and then his stomach clenches as he remembers, “ _Alduin’s Wall._ I promised Delphine I’d be ready in a few weeks and it’s been longer than that. I have to head there and, and…”

“Chry? Please listen,” his friend reaches out and takes hold of his hands. His own are quintessentially _Lucien_ , warm and soft, and always smudged with ink. “I would love to see Alduin’s Wall with you… _later_. You’re not in a good frame of mind to take on any saving-the-world stuff right now, so let’s not. It’ll be okay, the dragon situation hasn’t gotten any worse, Delphine can wait. She can wait, alright?”

“Alright,” he repeats shakily. “Alright, alright.”

The imperial squeezes his hands. “Let’s just wander for a bit, you and I. We’ll pick a new direction and see what we find. Where should we go? Is there anywhere you haven’t been yet?”

He gives a slow exhale, feeling the erratic pulse of his heart start to calm once more. “I haven’t done much in Solitude or Windhelm. I’ve been staying away because of the civil war, I don’t want to involve myself in it.” He thinks, and it comes to him. “Morthal. I haven’t been to Morthal.”

-

Morthal reminds him of Falkreath. It’s small and quiet, but there’s a similar sort of sombreness to both places as well. Falkreath because of its too-large graveyard, more dead people than alive, but for Morthal it’s something else. He might pin it on the surrounding swamps - the boggy land doesn’t support structures very well so there are no towers and keeps dotting the landscape as with everywhere else, leaving only lichen-draped trees for miles and miles. But there’s something else about the roiling mist and murky waters that makes the place feel solemn. Lucien calls it creepy, but Chrysanthe finds a certain peace to it. Right now, it’s just what he needs.

He asks around for work, and receives a bounty notice to hunt the dragon nesting in the not-too-far Skywatch Altar before it causes more trouble for the town. He sighs, folds up the bounty and puts it in his pack. It needs dealing with so he won’t ignore it, but later. He’s in no mood to slay dragons right now, though he does wonder if Miraak would even turn up, and if he did how he would react if Chrysanthe just walked off silently rather than engage in their usual minute-long back-forth.

Aside from this he looks into the town’s recent troubles at the behest of Jarl Idgrod, Morthal’s wizened and quasi-mystical leader. Aside from Balgruuf she seems to be one of the only Jarls to actually give a hoot about her people, and so he helps as best he can. The pale-skinned, only-comes-out-at-night Alva is assuredly the source of Hroggar’s recent change in behaviour, her culpability so obvious that he must assume mind-meddling magic is responsible for her escaping blame thus far. However he needs proof, and with no other options obvious to him, ends up breaking into her house under cover of night to acquire it.

On the other side of the door he finds the bewitched Hroggar awaiting him, axe in hand: “I won’t let you hurt Alva!”

Chrysanthe fends off the first blow, and then as the maddened man raises his hand to attack once more- “ **GOL HAH!** ”

It is a Shout that is a whisper. The effect is instantaneous; Hroggar’s arms drop by his sides, and his gaze goes distant. “I won’t let you hurt Alva,” he repeats in monotone, but makes no move to attack.

“What - that-” Lucien gapes from next to him, “Was that the Miraak Shout?”

“Bend Will. It comes from Mora, not Miraak,” Chrysanthe corrects quietly. He’s as uncomfortable using it as Lucien is witnessing it, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. “He attacked us, you saw. It was that or kill him.”

“No no, I’m not disputing it was the better option, I just - haven’t seen it in action before.” The scholar gives Hroggar a wary look. “That’s scary. I know you can Shout people to ash and all, but being able to slip into someone’s mind just like that…”

“It’s not permanent. Speaking of, let’s find our proof before he snaps out of it. Hopefully when Alva is dead he’ll have his mind back properly.”

-

It emerges that Alva is only the start of the problem. Once he informs Jarl Idgrod she musters the residents of Morthal, and before he knows it he has a whole pitchfork mob on his hands. He frantically plans for how the hell he’s going to keep them all alive the whole way to the master vampire Movarth’s lair. To his immeasurable relief they all lose their nerve at the last minute and he gladly sends them home so he can deal with the problem himself.

Between Lucien’s flames and his own restoration magic being quite good against undead, he puts both Movarth and Alva down with ease. It’s still nighttime when he emerges, into the twilight hours by now, but Jarl Idgrod stayed up to await further news.

“You’ve done us a great service. Here,” she hands him a tidy sum of gold for his efforts. “Coin is useful, if limited in its value. I have a better gift if you would be willing to receive it… it concerns the voice in the dark, the one trapped by books and past sins.”

His eyes widen. He doesn’t need to ask how she knows this; _anyone_ in Morthal can tell you that Jarl Idgrod and her bloodline have the power of insight. “Yes. Tell me, please.”

“You wish to free him, but do not know if you can, or more importantly if you should,” her voice takes on a dreamy sort of tone, as though the words were coming to her right now, and she the mere conduit for passing the message along. “The path of redemption is the hardest to walk, but it is not futile as you fear. His heart is dark with ink, but you are fresh water. He will never be pure, but for you - and you alone - he will try.”

It feels as though his heart is in his throat. “So I can save him?” he asks in a whisper.

Idgrod turns to look at him, her eyes unfathomably dark, her expression neutral. “You can, but only do this if you would walk with him until the end of days. Once you have brought him to your side he will not be able to live without you, nor you without him.”

_You come to Apocrypha because I am there. You learn secret magic so we may speak. You slay dragons just to call me._

_Why would you beckon me like this, if you didn’t want me to own you?_

He’s been owned once before, he thinks darkly. He has no intention of placing himself at Miraak’s feet, because if he does that’s exactly where he’ll stay. But he would have Miraak at his side, yes, as an equal. Idgrod is right in that it would be permanent, there’s no way he could help the other Dragonborn into Nirn and then leave him to his own devices. If he frees Miraak, they’ll never be apart again. That’s a frightening thought.

But also, and he sort of hates that he feels this way given Miraak’s multiple attempts to harm him, it’s not an unappealing one either. The world-saving weight on his shoulders would not be so crushing if he had someone to share it with, especially someone who actually knows what they’re doing. He can see that they would complement each other - Miraak is assertive where he is passive, decisive where he is unsure. Conversely, he is empathetic where Miraak is callous, and gentle where he is draconian. As a pair they would be unstoppable, if he could only curb Miraak’s utter ruthlessness first.

He was starting to think that this was a hopeless cause, but perhaps it is not after all.

Idgrod closes her eyes peacefully, and when she opens them again they look different, clearer. Though she also looks like she might have a headache swiftly coming in. “Was that useful?” she murmurs.

He bows before the only Jarl to truly command his reverence. “More than you know.”

-

Of course, he thinks as he steps back outside to meet up with Lucien again, there’s nothing to say that Idgrod’s visions are correct. He knows that they’re not faked, but that doesn’t make them true or at all reliable. What if he just can’t do it? What if he talks and talks with Miraak and the man never changes, never turns into a soul worth saving?

Something in him says, _Then at least I tried._

He takes a breath. He is indecisive on so many things, but this has never been so with Miraak. He knew from the start that they wouldn’t be enemies, like the Skaal and Hermaeus Mora and everyone else seems to think they will. He knew that he needed to acquire telepathy to overcome their limitations, even if he had to twist the arm of the Psijic Order to do it. He knows, with a certainty that is otherwise unfamiliar to him, that he has to keep trying this.

He’s already too far in it, anyway. He might be able to extract himself from all of this with great effort, if he shuts off every sympathy he feels for Miraak. Does the rational, sensible thing and just kills the man, ends the threat, severs these bonds that he’s somehow trapped himself in. He could do that.

But he knows that he won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeah, Morthal! I love me some haunted swamps, and Idgrod is awesome.
> 
> Also Miraak continues to be scary. That’s what a few thousand years of speaking only to a few brainwashed dragons, seekers and Hermaeus Mora does to you. As a real-life lesson, the power of love pretty much never redeems people, and ‘I can change them’ is a self-destructive mindset to take. Don’t date Miraaks in real life, people. Date him all you want in fiction, though!


	7. Chapter 7

He ought to return to the tavern really. The night grows late, even if much of the town is still awake with relief and merriment at the recent victory. If he goes there he’s certain to get at least a clap on the back and a free mead for his efforts tonight, and Lurbuk the unlikely bard will start an off-key song in his honour.

Instead, he fishes around in his pack instead, until he pulls out the bounty notice he picked up earlier and waves it at Lucien. “I don’t know about you but I’m too wound up to sleep. We could kill the dragon causing trouble at Skyborn Altar? We might even make it back before sunrise if the horses keep a good pace. We can pick up the bounty tomorrow and be ready to move on, rather than wasting the day.”

The imperial looks dubious. “I’m not tired either, but is fighting a dragon at night a good idea?”

On the whole, no. Fighting them in broad daylight is challenging enough, and in the dark any flame breath causes debilitating night blindness. Frost breath isn’t as deadly though - at least, no deadlier than it usually is. “Why don’t we go and see? We can always double back if it looks like a death sentence.”

“You say such reassuring things.” A pause. “…If Miraak appears, will you be okay?” Unsurprisingly, Lucien has taken a dimmer view of Miraak since witnessing Chrysanthe’s despair back in Winterhold.

Chry gives him a wistful sort of smile. “I’ll be fine. My plan is to remind him that if he keeps this up I’ll only speak to him after dragon fights.”

“Hopefully that’ll set him straight,” Lucien agrees.

-

The top heralds a frost dragon. Once he’s talked Lucien into it and they’ve both chugged potions of frost resistance, he charges in.

He wishes he had the gall (and arguably stupidity) to fight dragons at night more often. The battle is formidable and wondrous; the sky is painted with aurora, lights and colours framing the swooping silhouette of the great creature. He’s so awestruck by it that he nearly forgets to duck when it unleashes a torrent of frost breath upon him, though the shock of cold quickly reminds him. Even as he hurriedly heals himself, he can’t help but look again. Draconic wings stretch out across as backdrop of glittering cosmos. He _wants_ , suddenly and almost painfully, to be up there too.

Majestic as it may be, the dragon must meet its end. When the deed is done he very nearly goes back to staring at the heavens - but Miraak has come, and he had hoped to speak with him.

“You call me again,” the masked man intones lowly. He seems sombre, a far cry from the gloating he used to subject Chrysanthe to. “When we last spoke, you vanished. Even though I asked you to stay.”

Chrysanthe takes a deep breath. “You demanded I stay, and I don’t respond well to demands. I want to see you again, but this must stop.”

“Once more you mislead me. You claim to want my company and then turn away from me.” The tone is reproachful and accusatory.

Calm. He must stay calm. “I do want your company. But when you overwhelm me like that it _hurts_ , it leaves me too weak to speak with you again.”

“You were not in pain when I touched you,” Miraak mutters.

“There’s physical pain and mental pain, and you’ve given me a lot of the latter lately,” Chry says simply. It’s a brutal brand of honesty, but it must be said. “I want to spend time with you, but I can’t keep going through this clash of wills. I’ll have to stop, do you understand? And then the only way we might speak is through this,” he gestures at the slumped dragon skeleton.

There’s a moment where it looks like Miraak is going to argue again. And if he does Chrysanthe honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do, because if Miraak won’t compromise then Chry must make good on his declaration, and not use the telepathy again. He does want to see Miraak but he can’t keep throwing himself at this wall if there’s not even an inch of give.

Then Miraak gives a low exhale, shoulders shaking with… anger? Something else. “Fine,” he says, voice tight. “Fine. I will do as you ask. And you will tell me about the man in black?” It’s a leap of progress, Chry thinks, that he ends this with the inflection of a question and not as another command.

Miraak is fading, and Chry knows leaving him without an answer will cause more upset - even though Miraak has avoided his questions in precisely this way many times. “Yes” he promises hurriedly. “I need time to recover, but I will tell you everything.”

Later, he and Lucien agree that this was miles better than last time, and he might actually be getting somewhere. They hurry back to Morthal before the night becomes day, and sleep in until the lazy hours of the next morning.

-

Once he’s picked up his bounty he says his goodbyes to the town. Hroggar in particular gives him a very quiet, muted thanks; if he remembers Chrysanthe briefly mind-controlling him, he doesn’t mention it. Chry doesn’t regret it (well, not much) and is glad he didn’t have to put the man down while he wasn’t in his right mind… but he’s all too aware that all Hroggar has left now is the burned shell of his old house, and the silent graves of his wife and child.

With luck the town will support him. Chrysanthe however, must move on.

Jarl Idgrod’s right hand man passed him a letter to take to Solitude. He wouldn’t mention the contents and asked Chrysanthe not to look, but its swift delivery seemed important so that’s the next sensible place to go. He has been avoiding Solitude thus far due to its affiliation with the empire; on the surface they seem like a better choice than the loutish nord supremacy of the Stormcloaks, but he needs only remember his dealings with the Thalmor, and how obviously they have the imperials under their thumb, to sway him away from supporting the empire either. Lucien, he assumes, is pro-empire given he hails from the Imperial City, but they don’t discuss it, perhaps because Lucien can sense that Chry really isn’t interested.

He arrives in Solitude in the coolness of night. This isn’t his first time here - the last time, memorably, he arrived right as an execution was taking place - but this time it is only a quiet evening. It’s too late to run errands, so he heads right for the Winking Skeever.

“Would you mind staying up with me?” he asks Lucien quiet enough that no-one can overhear. “I thought… I’m feeling well enough to contact Miraak again.”

“Of course. I’ll bring a book to read if that’s alright, last time you sat in silence for an hour before snapping out of it.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” He fidgets. “I hope it will go better this time, but if it doesn’t… well, my thinking is that we’ll spend the next few days in Solitude not doing anything too strenuous. And I’ll, ah. Leave you money out. For sweetrolls, if needed.”

“I’m thinking I might expand my repertoire actually,” Lucien jokes, which makes him feel a lot less awkward about the whole thing. “How do you feel about crostatas?”

-

He is on a wrought iron bridge in Apocrypha - though this is not literally Apocrypha, and aside from the bridge it looks more like he’s floating in a black void. On the other side he sees a dark robed figure, gold mask glinting in nonexistent light. Miraak’s voice rumbles in his ear despite the distance: **I want to be closer.**

He swallows. _I will allow it if you promise not to grab me again._

**Fine.**

Then they are closer, stood across from each other. He’s elected not to envision a wall between them this time - it only seems to stir Miraak into seeing it as a barrier to be broken. Now there is empty space between them instead, not quite within arm’s reach. He can see the tight tension across Miraak’s form, and a slight tremble to his shoulders. He thinks it might be anger at being finally cowed, but when he opens his mind a little further to detect it he finds something… else. It’s complex, difficult to quantify as any one thing, but it’s much closer to stressed than it is to enraged.

Then he realises. _Are you struggling not to overwhelm me?_

 **It is - difficult to restrain myself,** Miraak says reluctantly. He doesn’t think Miraak would admit to this at all if Chrysanthe couldn’t sense his true feelings anyway. **I have not had to deny myself anything for a very long time. Your request is harder on me than you realise.**

Four thousand years, he must remind himself steadily. Even basic restraint is a challenge. _I appreciate you making the effort. I said I would tell you about the man in black._

Miraak looks sharply at him. **Yes. You named him master.**

 _Former master. I don’t serve him, or anyone._ And there, the big secret that angered Miraak so is finally out. He’s more than a little staggered at the relief he feels from the other man. _Did the thought that I did really cause you so much distress?_

 **I was not distressed-** Miraak bites back at once, a reflexive denial. Realising that it’s a pointless gesture he hisses between his teeth, frustrated. **You have dedicated time and effort towards me and I thought I understood why. The thought that it was merely because you were commanded to was unsettling.**

 _He has a part to play in all this I suppose. I was a thrall, a mindless slave, completely under his thumb. Does that sound familiar?_ He locks eyes, in as far as the gold mask will let him anyway, with his counterpart. _It doesn’t compare to your imprisonment here, but you can see why I emphasise with you wanting to escape. You can also see why I can’t let you mind-control the people of Solstheim to do so._

Miraak gives a rumbling noise of assent to both those observations, and seems less irritated at the reminder that Chrysanthe ruined his designs than Chry thought he might be. **I have abandoned those plans anyway** , is all he says (or thinks). It isn’t long, however, before his thoughts turn sharp and spiky once more: **Where is this man in black? I will kill him.**

The intensity of the statement catches him by surprise; he’s not sure whether to laugh or scoff. _You arrived at that decision quickly. You’re going to step out of Apocrypha to end him for me are you?_

 **I will send one of my cultists,** Miraak concedes, but this only seems to put a mild damper on his plans. **Where is he? I will make sure it is slow and painful.**

_Too late. I killed him myself when I first woke up._

The anger swiftly cuts out, replaced by disappointment. **Ah.**

Chrysanthe snorts. _It was a messy death, if it pleases you._

 **It does please me.** It really does, going by the satisfied feeling he receives, marred only by the fact that Miraak would have liked to do it himself. Why Miraak is so invested in his former master’s death is a bit beyond him to be honest. The other Dragonborn glances over at him, perhaps sensing Chrysanthe’s quizzical observations. **Your visions of him were accompanied by fear. He brought you harm.**

_I suppose the only one allowed to harm me is you, is that it?_

**Maybe that is it,** Miraak says darkly. Divines, the man just can’t turn off the menace, can he. **You are my greatest adversary, Hermaeus Mora excluded, and I will be yours. No-one else is permitted to take that role.**

He can’t help a sad sigh. Still, after all this time. _I do not want us to be adversaries._

 **What do you want us to be, then?** Miraak takes a step closer, very much without permission. It sets Chrysanthe’s hairs on end, but he must will himself not to step backwards - accommodating Miraak’s aggressiveness seems to give him a foothold in controlling things. Sure enough Miraak does not take another step, though he’s quite aware that he would _like_ to. **I have asked you this before and you will not answer me.**

He swallows, hard. The almost-growl Miraak’s voice slips into very much makes him want to retreat… and yet, also beckons him nearer. It’s that familiarity once again. _You didn’t give me the chance to answer before._

**Still you avoid the question. I am giving you the chance now.**

He scowls, stomps down on the sudden flutter inside his chest. He hasn’t answered because he doesn’t know himself. He’s been mulling this over for a while, and especially since he listened to Idgrod’s prophecy, but he can’t afford to do it here where Miraak might glimpse his thoughts and come to a wrong conclusion. Lucien has teased him about romance, but he can only be so romantic about someone who openly wishes to kill him - it is, to put it lightly, a damper on their relationship. Eventually he settles on: _Allies. Friends._

Miraak gives a very sharp _tch_ sound accompanied by a hefty dose of disdain, but he offers no further comment. He shifts his weight onto his back foot, a stance that lets him eye Chrysanthe thoughtfully. Whatever he’s thinking is obscured to the altmer.

This is evidently deliberate as Miraak reaches into his robes, some hidden pocket among the folds, and produces a simple gold band, in which is set a bright sapphire. Chrysanthe’s eyes widen at the sight of it – even though Miraak had confirmed he had the ring, seeing it grasped between the other man’s fingers really brings it home. They touched. They passed an object between them.

 **Your ring,** Miraak states entirely too nonchalantly. **You wore this when we first met, I remember, and every time since. It has great value to you.**

Chrysanthe presses his lips into a thin line. He has a feeling on where this is heading. _Yes, it does._

 **You want it back** , Miraak states, rather than asks. **I will give it to you.**

If Chry had to sum up his thoughts at this moment, it would be a sound like HMM. But he does not say this, or think it loud enough for Miraak to hear it. Remaining neutral he thrusts out an arm, hand open and face-up. _You can drop it into my hand._

 **Very well.** Miraak reaches out too, dangles the ring above Chrysanthe’s waiting palm.

Then, in a swift movement, his other hand lashes out to grab at Chry’s wrist instead.

He stops half way, as though stopped by some invisible force, a gap between them he just can’t cross. While Miraak snarls wordlessly, Chry simply sighs. _I thought as much._

 **Let me near** , Miraak hisses, pushing pushing pushing against Chry’s will, **I have shown restraint as you asked. Let me near!**

 _And I told you of my past, as you asked. I don’t owe you anything more._ Don’t let him touch, Quaranir said. And he remembers, last time, how it seemed to drain him, how tired he was when he awoke. _I told you before that it hurts me._

 **Lies! The first time we touched your fingers sought out mine, not the other way around. You are always the one to initiate, then to withdraw when I return the gesture!** Miraak snaps and snarls, the gold ring clenched so tightly in his fist that Chrysanthe thinks that Miraak may never let it go again. Not while it’s a piece of Chrysanthe that he can keep and lord over him. Not while he has this mindset that Chry is a thing to be taken.

 _It leaves me weak,_ he insists. But rational thought isn’t getting through, furious as Miraak now is. He bites his lips and tries for a different tactic: _Is it not telling that I still seek you out despite that? These talks leave me exhausted, moreso when you try to control them, but I keep trying._

This doesn’t soothe the savage beast per se but he does feel a lessening of the vitriol currently pouring off Miraak. **Why then?! If I hurt you so much why do you keep doing this?** The words are exasperated, but he’ll take that over blind fury.

_Because you are important to me._

This admission strikes him as… risky, exposing too much of himself for Miraak to scrutinise, manipulate, misinterpret. The man is already under the impression that he owns Chrysanthe, which is not true - he is determined that he will not be owned by anyone ever again. He does concede that many of his actions concerning Mora, the dragons and the telepathy might all be taken as acts of submission to someone who is accustomed to no other dynamic. It’s not how it was intended, though, and so he must clarify.

 _I wish I could… quantify it better,_ he continues at last - and it doesn’t escape his notice that Miraak is yet to reply. He doesn’t intend to but the words emerge quiet, like a whispered secret. _The reason I can’t tell you what I want to be to you is because I don’t know myself. But I do know that I don’t want to be the prey to your predator. I don’t want you to chase or catch or claim me. I have come to you, repeatedly, despite all your teeth. What prey does that?_

For a moment they are both wordless, punctuated only by the raspy, metallic breaths behind Miraak’s mask, though he’s sure his own don’t sound much better.

 **…No prey does,** Miraak murmurs back, and at last, to Chrysanthe’s immeasurable relief, he is no longer angry.

Abruptly, he realises that he is tired. Very tired. This conversation, and the argument it almost turned into, has taken its toll on him. _I’m growing weak again. I need to take my leave._

Miraak looks up sharply, a flare of panic almost instantly smoothed over into domineering confidence. **No. Stay longer.**

_You know that I can’t._

The confidence slips into frustrated acceptance. **Return soon, then. Tomorrow.**

Quaranir did tell him Miraak would ask this of him. He’s tempted to disregard the advice, but he’s not stupid. _I need more time to recover than that. I’ll return as soon as I have the strength. I want to talk with you again._

That is true of course; even if he were lying he thinks Miraak would be able to sense the deception, entwined as their minds are, but there is nothing there but truth. This, he assumes, is the reason that Miraak does not offer more protest, but watches wordlessly as Chrysanthe slips away.

-

When he comes to his movement startles Lucien from his own sleep, curled up against the wall, book fallen carelessly at his side. It’s dark, the candle has burned low, and the Winking Skeever is otherwise silent.

“Ahh. Ow, I’m going to feel that tomorrow. Actually, I think it might _be_ tomorrow,” the man rubs at the back of his neck and rolls his shoulders before glancing Chry’s way. “Sorry, I tried to stay up to keep an eye on you but I ended up drifting off. You were in there a while, is that… a good thing? I notice the lack of despair this time.”

“Mmn. It went… better.” The conversation didn’t feel that long to him, but he isn’t surprised to find that time has flown by in his absence. “I need to sleep though. You too, in a proper bed. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

-

And when he does recount the events, albeit glossing over some of the more intimate parts, Lucien says: “So you’re telling me that after this time, the way to get through to Miraak is flattery?”

“That’s not-” He pauses. “Wait. That was it, wasn’t it?”

“I told you, he loves the attention. That’s what happens when a god-king gets demoted to decorative trophy for a few thousand years,” the scholar nods sagely.

-

He hates to admit it, but Quaranir is right that this telepathy thing takes a physical toll on him. He doesn’t need to lie in bed all day or anything, though he can see that he might if Miraak had his way and kept him there for an extended period of time. He is, however, not feeling his best, and so constrains himself to poking around Solitude with small tasks for today.

One of those tasks is delivering the letter of Gorm, Jarl Idgrod’s guard, to Captain Aldis of the legion. Gorm expressed much concern about Idgrod’s ability to lead Morthal with her worsening visions, but it also seemed like he loved his liege dearly and had her best interests at heart. Chrysanthe hasn’t opened the letter to see the contents as per Gorm’s request, but assumed it was a notice to inform of Idgrod’s condition, maybe an inquiry for healing. He didn’t realise it was a call to _overthrow_ Idgrod, which is what Aldis brings up once he’s read the letter himself.

He’s horrified. “You mean to replace her?! You can’t do that, she’s the only decent Jarl out there!”

“Don’t let the other Jarls hear you say that,” Aldis mutters.

“I’m serious. Even if she’s sometimes… indisposed, that doesn’t make her a bad leader,” he shakes his head, “Gorm is frightened by the visions because he doesn’t understand them, don’t let fear cloud your judgement. Replacing her would be a terrible mistake.”

“It’s a bad time to be replacing anyone anyway,” the soldier points out wearily. “After this civil war is finally over I’ll re-review it but she’s fine for now, alright?”

-

He’s irritated about this for the rest of the day. Gorm didn’t inform him he was couriering something that might bring harm to Idgrod. Once they’ve stopped for lunch he makes a decision: “Right, what in Solitude needs fixing? If I get a good reputation here then Aldis might take my thoughts on Jarl Idgrod more seriously.”

“I think the biggest issue in Solitude is the civil war,” his companion points out. “You could always join the legion if you really want his attention.”

He pulls a face. “No thanks.”

He doesn’t miss Lucien’s wistful smile. “You’re really neutral on it all, huh?”

“The Stormcloaks are bastards, the Empire are puppets,” he shrugs, then remembers his company. “Sorry. You’re not neutral, I should think before I speak.”

“I don’t feel very strongly about it, but I can’t be against the empire when I come from the Imperial City.” Lucien looks up at the sky. “…You’re not wrong. It’s one of those things that doesn’t get talked about in polite company, but it always felt like the truce with the Aldmeri Dominion was defeat by another name.”

“The whole thing is… complicated,” he gestures fruitlessly. “Let’s just stay out of it. It’s not like this war can go on forever, fate will pick a winner eventually.”

-

He meanders around Solitude for a few days. Lucien is right in that, aside from the tensions of the war, Solitude doesn’t have a lot of major wrongs that he can right. He pursues idle investigations into strange noises from the nearby Wolfskull Cave, which _doooes_ lead him into stopping a cult of necromancers trying to resurrect a tyrant queen of legend, so that was quite interesting. It looks to his eye like the swarm of purple light that was Potema’s spirit _escaped_ the ritual chamber rather than dissipated, but since no armies of undead make themselves known he must (reluctantly) assume that the threat is gone.

He knows he’s running out of things to do when he goes poking around an old wing of the blue palace with a bit of dead emperors hipbone in his pocket, and shouldn’t be surprised that such a bizarre request leads him straight into the clutches of the daedric prince of madness. Sheogorath plays with him as a cat plays with a mouse it is about to eat, but he escapes unharmed and with the staff Wabbajack as an unasked-for reward. He doesn’t really want to keep it or irresponsibly sell it. He debates chucking it into the sea, but the mad god will likely take offence and have it constantly turn up under his bedroll or something.

He settles for conveniently misplacing it on one of the ships down at the docks. “Just going to let this sail away to distant lands,” he mutters, “And it can cause mischief over there.”

-

For something else to do, and because admittedly he could do with a hobby that doesn’t involve killing things, he looks into joining Solitude’s school of bards. This is of course after suffering Lucien’s inevitable joke that maybe _this_ college will try to make him their leader after two weeks as well. He’s not sure if they’ll even let him join since he can’t actually play a musical instrument, but the headmaster Viarmo’s entrance exam is a tomb delve to retrieve an old song. How fortuitous that tomb delving is his speciality.

That gives him cause to leave Solitude briefly and return with King Olaf’s Verse in hand. Alas the book is badly damaged and as for what remains of the text, well… it emerges that the legendary lost ballad is in fact, rather poorly written.

“They can’t all be winners,” he consoles Viarmo mildly. “Why don’t we rewrite it?”

Viarmo looks unsure. “We could not possibly rewrite it. Could we?”

They can and do.

Later that evening he enjoys the reinstated Burning of King Olaf festival and his formal induction to the college. Next to him Lucien sighs and swigs his spiced wine. “I can’t believe you changed the entire story. You realise history will now remember King Olaf as a secret dragon now, right? When really he was just your average malevolent tyrant. That’s how bard songs work, they get passed down through the ages and everyone forgets what really happened.”

“Mmn,” Chrysanthe agrees with a glint in his eye, “Truth is malleable like that.”

-

After a few days he’s achieved middling recognition in Solitude, if not any great deal of respect for his multitude of small tasks. Whether Captain Aldis will now take his words about Jarl Idgrod to heart remains to be seen, but he’s done all he can. And now he’s done being an errand boy, he ought to get back to being a chosen one. As in, he needs to find Alduin’s Wall with Delphine.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Lucien asks softly as Chrysanthe pens his letter to her. He’s kept it short and vaguely worded, but Delphine and Esbern should understand: _I’m ready for that task. I’ll wait for you both in the agreed place, come as soon as you can. -C._

“Not really, but it needs doing. If I put this off any longer I half expect her to start sending assassins after me.”

“It’s not like she knows what you’re up to. You told her you were going to Solstheim right? You’re still over there as far as she knows.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He’s going by what little he knows of Delphine, but she strikes him as a person who makes it her business to know things. He’s certain she knew the moment he stepped foot back on the mainland, and that was some time ago. His only reprieve is that she likely only has informants and not outright spies; he doubts she has the funds to pay someone to follow him around everywhere. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m giving her too much credit, but I’d rather overestimate than underestimate.”

“You make it sound like she’s your enemy.”

“She’s not my friend, I’ll tell you that for free.”

Reluctantly however he must admit that she’s an ally, and in this business with Alduin, currently the only lead he has. He sends the letter by urgent courier to Riverwood - but it will take at least a day to reach there, and a few more days on top of that for Delphine and Esbern to travel to Karthspire. There’s no point in him and Lucien setting off just yet.

A few more days then. Lucien very happily keeps himself busy perusing the library in the bards college and Chrysanthe figures that, having gone through the effort to get himself initiated, he might as well take some music lessons. He _did_ want a new hobby.

Giarmo eagerly agrees to tutelage. He is very favourably disposed towards Chrysanthe, probably because Chry’s rewrite of King Olaf’s Verse earned the college a generous patronage from the Solitude courts, though privately he wonders if them both being altmer also has something to do with it. He’s struggled to feel any kinship with other high elves before now but he does like Giarmo, sees that old age has tempered him into something kinder than most of their ilk. So Giarmo is keen to teach and Chrysanthe is keen to learn, they both sit down together with a few musical instruments… and then something _weird_ happens.

Giarmo shows him how to hold the lute and flute and goes through some basic exercises with encouraging comments: “Yes, there you have it! You certainly learn quickly.”

Then he teaches Chrysanthe a simple song, which Chrysanthe repeats back to him on the first try, and Giarmo says: “My goodness, I’d say you’re a natural at this.”

Then Giarmo tests his apparently innate talents with a more complex song, then another, and each new song his enthusiastic smile morphs further and further into confusion until he finally queries: “My dear boy, I thought you hadn’t done this before?”

Chrysanthe looks down at the lute in his hands. Something about the weight in his lap is quite soothing. “I haven’t.”

Giarmo tilts his head. “I could believe in innate or perhaps Divines-given talent, but you hold that lute like you’ve been holding one all your life. I know familiarity when I see it.” He looks at Chrysanthe oddly then, like he’s come to some realisation. “Why would you ask me for lessons if you already know how to play?”

“Giarmo, I’ve never picked up a lute in my life,” Chrysanthe insists.

And then it hits him.

“Oh,” he says faintly. Then he smooths his fingers across his mouth, reeling at the realisation. “Ohh. Not in _this_ life.”

Giarmo just frowns. “Pardon?”

“I-I have-” He doesn’t really share this but it’s not a secret either, so- “I had a, um… an accident, a head injury, and I lost the memories of a significant portion of my life. I apologise, I don’t _remember_ picking up a lute before, but it is apparent that I have at some point, and learned how to play it too.”

“Oh my goodness,” Giarmo echoes, wide-eyed. “Don’t apologise then, if I’ve helped you remember something! You were perhaps a bard then, before this memory loss?”

 _By the Divines, I might have been._ He knows how to play the lute. Why didn’t he realise this sooner? But he’s never tried plucking at a lute before - it’s not like he comes across many musical instruments in his dungeon delves and even when he did they were too heavy and unwieldy for him to carry around so he left them be. What other things does he know how to do that he’s just never tried?

“That is an unbelievable tale, if a tragic one. I assume you’ve already sought healing? I confess I’ve never heard of healing magics that could restore lost memories…” Giarmo continues thoughtfully, unaware of Chrysanthe’s existential crisis.

Though, something pauses that in its tracks: “Wait. Why did you think I’d asked you for lessons? You looked like you had some thoughts.”

Giarmo immediately averts his eyes, “Ah well, they were confused thoughts mostly. You certainly had me baffled!”

Well now he has to know. “But you had theories?”

“It was - I assumed some ulterior motive such as, as… ahhh this sounds terribly conceited in retrospect…” Giarmo shuffles uncomfortably. “I thought you’d asked to merely, ah, spend time with me. You wouldn’t be the first student to do such, whether to try and curry some favouritism within the college or… a more straight-forward desire. I was thinking of ways to let you down gently.”

Chrysanthe blinks in sheer disbelief, then before he knows it he’s laughing.

“Now that is quite uncalled for!” the older altmer huffs, but he’s also smiling. It figures that a bard of such experience would be able to handle a rejection (in response to his own rejection, at that) with grace. “I shall have you know many people find me attractive even if you’re not one of them - and I am quite relieved to hear so, in fact! You’re far too young for me.”

“Sorry, headmaster, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply your looks were anything less than stellar,” Chrysanthe’s face hurts from smiling too much, an unfamiliar but marvellous sensation _._ “But no, I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m afraid you’re not my type.”

-

His next few days at the college bring him much more merriment, but before he knows it reality rings for him once again. He says his goodbyes and travels southward, the Haafingar becoming the Hjaalmarch becoming the Reach. Soon enough he arrives at Karthspire, or rather the Forsworn camp right next to it, to find most of the occupants already slain. Delphine is effective, he’ll give her that.

She’s also annoyed with him, as evidenced when he finds her at the mouth of the cave. “A few weeks, you said,” she opens with, lips set in a thin line. Esbern and Lucien both shift uncomfortably in the background, both mild-mannered scholars, neither great arguers. “Where have you been?”

He folds his arms. “Solstheim like I said. I told you to go on without me if you needed to.”

He gets a glare. “You know we can’t do this without you, you’re central to the whole thing!”

“And I was busy! I had issues to resolve on Solstheim and then I had to stop Winterhold from blowing up!” he snaps back. “Surely you already know this? I assume you already keep an eye on what I get up to.”

“You’re surprisingly difficult to keep tabs on,” she mutters, which confirms that she does indeed try. “Fine, it doesn’t matter where you were, you’re here now. Esbern already glanced inside and the architecture looks Akaviri alright, so this is the place-”

From overhead, they all hear an all too familiar earth-shaking roar.

-

The thing is, the dragon fight isn’t actually that bad. He’s definitely fought tougher - the really ancient looking ones with glittering gold scales are probably the hardest - and with the help of not only Lucien but Delphine’s arrows and Esbern’s magic, they can soon force it to land so Chrysanthe can do some real damage to it. Rinse and repeat a few times, and the creature falls.

He nonetheless ends the fight with a very real sense of fear, because he’s almost certain Miraak is going to steal this soul. It’s only because this has happened so many times (ten now?) that he can predict this with such accuracy, but if the dragon’s soul doesn’t immediately flow towards him, it means it’s being pulled in two different directions, and _that_ means Miraak is coming. Chrysanthe has no idea how to stop this from happening, and admittedly has never made much of an effort. He doesn’t especially care if Miraak steals his dragon souls, and always welcomes seeing his counterpart.

Except for this moment. Because Delphine is here.

He is reminded by Lucien’s comment that Delphine is closer to enemy than she is to friend. He doesn’t want to have to explain the whole convoluted business with Miraak to her and if he did have to, he’s fairly sure she wouldn’t approve. In theory she should - more Dragonborn means a better chance to fight Alduin - but a Dragonborn that used to be a dragon priest, and still very much has the mindset of one? He can see her taking issue with it. The dragon is dead, disintegrating into a skeleton. Delphine is approaching, will be close enough to see Miraak when he appears and he can’t let it happen. In his desperation Chrysanthe squeezes his eyes shut, and reaches out-

_Door - gate - link-_

He doesn’t have time to visualise Apocrypha properly, finding himself in a formless black void, opposite Miraak’s familiar shape. The feeling is distinctly _ugh_ \- something to do with contacting Miraak as he steps out of Apocrypha and into Nirn, as opposed to on a more stable plane. The best he can articulate is that it feels like meeting someone on a stairwell and trying to hold a conversation when neither is at eye level, though he’s not sure who’s up and who’s down. It doesn’t matter - so long as Miraak can hear him.

 _Leave this soul alone,_ he urges, _Please, I can’t let her see you._

 **Let who see me?** Miraak returns with a flurry of feeling to accompany it - confusion at being contacted so rapidly, curiosity at the request, and something that feels weirdly possessive.

He probably thinks this is another secret master of Chrysanthe’s. _Delphine, I’ll tell you about her later. Stay hidden, you can have the next soul._

In a split second an idea is born, contemplated and acted upon: **A touch.**

_What?_

**The next time we speak, we will touch,** Miraak offers, voice as smooth as honey. He is evidently pleased with himself for this bargain. **Promise this and I will stay my hand for you.**

_That’s - I’m not supposed to-_

**Yes or no, Dragonborn.**

_Fine,_ he bites out. _Fine yes, I accept._

He doesn’t have time for niceties, so as soon as Miraak has agreed he breaks the link and finds himself back on Nirn, whereupon he promptly falls on his face.

“By the Nine-” Delphine rushes over to him, “Are you alright? You’re white as a sheet.”

“Yes! Yes. Just a little wounded from - the dragon-” Ahhh his _head_. Forming and severing a telepathic link that fast was not kind on him. “Do you have a spare healing potion I could have?”

While Delphine busies herself, the dragon’s soul rushes and wraps around Chrysanthe until its power sinks into him. Miraak does not show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this story I was going to have sections from Miraak’s perspective so we could get his side of the story but I couldn’t find anywhere to work it in that wasn’t jarring. Hopefully Miraak’s own increasingly complex view of Chrysanthe is coming across, though.
> 
> The bit about Chrysanthe being able to play the lute is mostly because I want a scene where he plays music for Miraak, but it seemed infeasible for him to learn an instrument in the limited time that he has. Also I just like the Bard’s College and I wish there was more to do with them in-game.


	8. Chapter 8

Navigating Karthspire to the semi-hidden Sky Haven Temple isn’t as arduous of a task as he expects it to be. What it does do is bring this Dragonborn business home. It seems stupid to say, given he’s been out fighting dragons, absorbing souls, learning Shouts. It’s not like he was in any denial that he was Dragonborn or anything like that. But this temple _reacts_ to him - most notably, the seal to the front door opens only when he cuts his own palm and drips some of his blood into it. His blood. Only his blood.

And Alduin’s Wall, centrepiece of the temple, details a prophecy about _him_. It confirms what they all knew was true - that Alduin comes to devour them all - and it calls him the last Dragonborn, something he fervently hopes is just dramatic reading. If he is the last, then no others will come after him to defeat Alduin - no others _can_ come, for his failure means the end of everything they know. It at least gives the key to defeating the World-Eater: a Shout that can pull dragons from the skies. Chrysanthe’s knowledge of Shouts is far from complete, but it’s beyond the scope of anything he’s learned so far.

Miraak might know that Shout. But of course he can’t tell Delphine that, so he merely nods along with her idea to ask the Greybeards, and listens to no small amount of disdain for the monastic order. She claims they don’t do enough, and he’s sure the Greybeards would claim that Delphine wants to do entirely too much.

“I just don’t want to see your potential go to waste,” she tells him with a sigh. “You’ve already come leaps and bounds since we first met. I remember the first dragon in Kynesgrove, we barely scraped through.”

“That was my second dragon actually,” Chry corrects her quietly, “But yes. I’ve had a lot of practice since then.”

“How many have you killed now?”

If he’s being totally honest about it, he’s only been keeping track of the dragons Miraak has shown up for, and he doesn’t turn up for every fight. “Twenty maybe?”

“Divines. Alright, you’re forgiven for taking your time getting here.” That might be the only time Delphine has looked impressed with him. “Just remember that’s twenty dragons that you never would have slain, that would still be flying around razing and killing, if the Greybeards had their way. This is the time for action, not meditation and reflection.”

“Hmmn,” says Chry. It’s not that he disagrees, per se. He can see both sides, but the Greybeards have been a lot kinder to him than Delphine has.

He and Lucien (who is thrilled to bits at all this Akaviri history to study) spend the night in the cobweb-strewn Sky Haven Temple. He only manages snatches of sleep, wonders if this is Miraak’s efforts to get Chrysanthe to speak with him - Chry is the one with telepathy, but if it’s a thread between them surely Miraak can pull on it too? It could also be his own anxiety though. He is definitely _not_ speaking with Miraak tonight, or at all until he’s somewhere safer, but when he does he has a lot to go over with the other Dragonborn - Alduin, Alduin-defeating Shouts, explaining who Delphine is. Though after what he promised in exchange for Miraak staying incognito, something tells him their next conversation will be… focused elsewhere.

He smothers the exasperated noise bubbling in his chest lest it wake the others. He’s not naive, his relationship with Miraak is… not romantic, that’s the wrong word, but it certainly sails past the boundaries of friendship. _Touching_ , that thing Miraak is so insistent on doing, has so far has only referred to a press of fingertips, and that frightening (but annoyingly vivid) time when Miraak threaded their fingers together and wouldn’t let him go again. All platonic, theoretically. But it has been dangerously intimate, all of it, even Chrysanthe can’t deny that. He doesn’t know what Miraak will try to do to him ( _to_ him or _with_ him?) given unfettered permission to touch.

He isn’t sure where he’d draw the line, either.

-

It’s a long trek back to High Hrothgar, and it is soon interrupted. He sees a dragon swooping over Rorikstead, threatening to burn the village down, and immediately hops off his horse and starts the jog over the deal with it. On drawing nearer it becomes apparent that it isn’t one of the usual ones - much larger, with scales as black as midnight.

“That’s-!” He darts for the nearest cover, dragging his companion with him. “That’s him, Lucien, do you remember the dragon we saw at Helgen? That’s Alduin!”

Maybe Alduin doesn’t see him. Or maybe he does, and Chrysanthe is such an insignificant speck that Alduin doesn’t even think to raze him where he stands. Rather the dragon of dragons swoops over a burial mound, and utters in guttural Dovahzul, like the rumbling of an oncoming avalanche: **_"Nahagliiv_ , ziil gro dovah ulse! _SLEN TLID VO!"_**

“Oh my gosh,” Lucien mumbles as the skies go from bright to thunderous in seconds, the rain begins to lash down upon them, and the earth of the burial mound starts to stir. It’s nothing less than apocalyptic. “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh.”

They’ve seen this before, at Kynesgrove. But that was so long ago, and it’s been longer still since he saw Alduin this clearly in the flesh, monstrous and behemoth. The task done the overlord flaps enormous wings with such force that it flattens the grass and shreds nearby wildflowers, then flies away to who knows where. The dragon he just bound reforms, skeletal remains given life.

Terror-struck as he is, Chrysanthe runs in to end it once again, permanently this time.

The dragon soon lies dead, caught unawares before it could take flight, but it’s little comfort. The sight of Alduin once more right after reading a prophecy that Chrysanthe _has to defeat him or the world will end_ leaves him shaking nervously. He shudders with relief when he feels the soul pulled away from him and towards the other Dragonborn. By the Divines and the Daedra and everything in between, _thank gods_ there is another Dragonborn.

“Miraak,” he blurts out when the man appears, doesn’t give him the chance to say some smart opening remark or comment on the deal they’ve made or anything else. “I’m the last. Did you know I was the last?”

“Last?” Miraak repeats, then: “Ah. The last Dragonborn. You did not know?”

He shakes his head, water dripping from every strand of his hair. “I didn’t. I knew there hadn’t been one for centuries, but not that there wouldn’t be anymore after me. Miraak-” He has to ask. He has to. “If you were free, would you help me? Defeat Alduin?”

Miraak crosses his arms over his chest. “I scorned that path the first time I was told to walk it. But… I would have to, would I not? Or my freedom would be quite short-lived.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You realise that if I were free, you would be dead. But then the last Dragonborn to walk Nirn would be me, and the prophecy would be true regardless.”

“Good enough,” Chrysanthe mutters. He is, frankly, too tired and sodden to have another argument with Miraak over the inevitability of them killing each other.

Miraak has precious few seconds left and Chry expects him to bring up their agreement before he goes. Sure enough, it forms his parting words: “Remember our deal, Dragonborn. I will await you.”

“Deal?” Lucien says when he’s gone.

Argh, he _always_ forgets Lucien is there. “I may have asked him not to take the soul of the dragon we fought yesterday in front of Delphine and Esbern,” he admits in a mumble. “I didn’t want them to see him and start asking questions. That would involve a lot of explanation.”

“No no, certainly understand your reasoning,” the scholar nods, but his tone is a bit worried. “But ah, in exchange for what? Nothing bad, right?”

“No, just a - a long telepathy conversation.” He’s just going to… sidestep the bits about _touching._ “I have the feeling it’ll wear me out for a few days, so I’m holding off until we’re somewhere I’ll be able to rest. I have a house in Falkreath that should do the trick.”

-

The house is named _Lakeview Manor_ , which is a misnomer - it is more of a cottage, small enough to be obscured by the thick forest around it. He built it with his own hands so that no-one else would know of its existence, and while he owns enough of the surrounding lands to expand further he lacked the time, skill and patience to craft a mansion. It was only ever intended to be a hidden base after all.

He has shared tents aplenty with Lucien, but on this occasion- “Would you be okay to stay in Falkreath for a while? I’ll give you money for the inn. Sorry, it’s just - the house is a good size for one person but it’s too cramped for two.” That isn’t untrue, even if he has other reasons in mind too. Mostly he wants his privacy.

Lucien accepts the offered coin and spare key. “I can keep myself busy for a few days. Will you be alright?”

“I should be, but come check on me tomorrow lunchtime just in case. If I’m still zoned out by then, try to snap me out of it.” He hopes it won’t come to that, but he needs to take precautions.

However hesitant, Lucien takes his leave. Then Chrysanthe sets about the task of scouting the surrounding wilderness for danger, locking the doors, making sure he’s fed and watered and washed and anything else he needs to do. And then finally, _finally_ he lies back on his comfortable bed, and calls forth visions of Apocrypha.

-

**You have come.**

The clarity of Miraak’s voice always catches him by surprise. His opening line is as much warning as Chrysanthe gets, and then Miraak is _there_ in front of him. Stepping into his space, trying to push him backwards against another Apocrypha-inspired wall, that he might leave Chry trapped with nowhere to escape.

 _Wait, wait-_ He forces their environment to reshape into a bridge between them, but the surge of resistance from Miraak is so strong and sudden it nearly knocks him over. The man seems to cross the bridge in one stride, relentless, seeking to close the gap again. It’s all Chrysanthe can do just to keep him at arm’s length. _Just wait a minute! Can we just move a little slower?_

 **You agreed a touch in exchange for my secrecy,** Miraak growls. **You will fulfil your end of the bargain, or I will have my cult find your precious Delphine and make her very aware of my existence.**

Chrysanthe halts his panicking to scoff at this, for one at the prospect of a bunch of cultists showing up at Sky Haven Temple, and two at Miraak’s terminology. _She is not my precious anything. I asked you to hide because explaining our dealings would be very annoying, not because I care that she would think less of me for it._

Miraak actually pauses for a moment, a sudden lapse in resistance. And then Chrysanthe hears it: a low and rumbling sound, as though it were right next to his ear. That’s a _laugh,_ he realises wide-eyed. He’s heard scornful laughter before, but not this genuine amusement. **Ah. And there it is.**

_There what is?_

**Your dovah soul. I wondered where you were hiding it, underneath all your patience and clemency, but it is there,** Miraak explains, voice rich with delight. **You chafe under her leadership. How very dragon-like of you.**

Chrysanthe grumbles. He thinks he argues with Delphine because Delphine is rude, but in retrospect it’s the feeling that he has to answer to or justify himself to her that actually gets his hackles up. Is that really a Dragonborn thing? _I didn’t think of it that way, but I suppose you have a point._

**It is the nature of dov, to strive to always come out on top. You have always seemed… exempt, from such things. It is pleasing, to know that you do feel the influence of your blood after all.**

Ah, so that’s why Miraak finds this funny. _No longer the high and mighty Good Dragonborn, am I?_

**It is a factor, but mostly it means we have more in common than I thought. I do not care for being ordered around either, of course.**

Chrysanthe falls quiet then. He sort of knew this already – that the reason Miraak is so domineering, and so strong-willed that even Apocrypha couldn’t crush him, is because he’s closer to dragon than he is to man. He hasn’t seen those traits in himself, but… they are there, aren’t they? Lesser, much easier to manage, but still there.

 **I am also pleased that this Delphine is not someone you answer to, or wish to answer to,** Miraak continues in Chrysanthe’s thoughtful silence. His amusement slips away, replaced by something more serious. **However you would still prefer she remain ignorant of our interaction. I will accommodate this, but only if you keep your word to me.**

He isn’t without hesitation. Quaranir told him, explicitly told him, not to let Miraak touch. But Chrysanthe did agree, and if he breaks his promise now he’ll undo all the progress he’s made so far. How will he ever bring Miraak into the light if Miraak cannot trust his word? _We can touch, but it still drains me to do so. I’m telling you this now so you don’t get offended later when I pull away. I will have to do so eventually._

Miraak feels annoyed by this, though he expected no less. **This is on the advice of your mage, is it?**

_The one with an expertise in telepathy, yes. I am already disregarding advice by agreeing to this._

He’s caught off-guard by the feeling he gets in response to this statement. It’s a rush of warm satisfaction, and something he’s starting to identify as possessiveness. **Good.**

Ah but of course, this is a flattery thing again, like Lucien said. Miraak likes being important enough that Chrysanthe would ignore the instruction of others to indulge him. It’s actually kind of funny that Miraak is ultimately this easy to please, but he doesn’t have long to dwell on it. Miraak holds a hand up, fingers splayed as though it were pressed against an invisible wall, and waits. He doesn’t say anything but doesn’t need to - Chrysanthe can feel the heaviness of expectation upon him, the anticipation coursing in Miraak’s veins - or perhaps it is in his own?

Chrysanthe swallows, and lifts his hand too. Pressing forwards, tentative but determined, he encounters something like air resistance. It belongs to neither him nor his counterpart but to the distance between them, as he passes through planes, layers of Oblivion, to half-way exist in the same reality Miraak occupies. It wears on him to cross that last barrier, he can feel it, but eventually the pressure against his skin becomes that much more… _corporeal_. Fingertips to his, and then the rest of their fingers, down to their palms, until finally they stand hand-to-hand.

He exhales with a great shudder, both from exertion and the release of all this tension. Can Miraak feel that tension as well? Can he feel how Chrysanthe’s heart thuds heavily in his chest, how he trembles with something he can’t name? They’re just touching hands. Something so simple shouldn’t make him react this strongly, but it’s as though his every nerve is alight starting with his hand, the tingles running through his fingers down to his wrist, along his arm and directly to his core. Again, is it him who feels that way, or is it Miraak? Or are they both feeding into that heady sensation, like a spark bouncing between them that gets brighter every time? If that’s it the other man must be able to feel this too.

As if in confirmation, there’s the flow of something too hot, too much - he can’t exactly name it, but It is definitely _desirous_ , and it makes Chrysanthe shiver to be on the receiving end of it. **This feels - more, I must have more-**

 _Be careful-_ he tries to say, but he finds himself smothered by the intensity radiating from his counterpart. Gods he has never felt this way before, and he can quite confidently claim no-one has felt this way _about_ him before. It’s such a sharp, hungry sensation that it feels like Miraak might literally try to eat him. _Don’t rush this. I’m not going anywhere._

 **Stay, stay, stay,** he hears urgently, and wonders if Miraak even knows he’s saying it.

 _I’m staying. Everything is fine._ It’s not exactly fine - he can feel the contact draining at his magicka, it’s just as well his altmer blood gives him deeper reserves than most. But he’s letting it happen, because Miraak craves it so desperately that Chrysanthe is not sure he could refuse even if he wanted to. He’s more than a little unnerved at the force of Miraak’s desires, but he’d be lying to say he rejects them. There’s a lot more reciprocation there than he’d really like to admit to.

Miraak’s fingers drag downwards, sliding against Chrysanthe’s own, until they reach his wrist. He’s trying to wrap his hand around it, Chry realises, but his fingers won’t move any further, like they’ve contacted some invisible, impassable barrier. **Stop resisting me,** the man bites out, awash with that need to grab and grip and have. **Let me feel more of you. We agreed.**

 _I’m not resisting,_ he just about manages to wrangle the words from a whimper to something more assertive. It does seem though that Miraak just can’t hold any more than he already is. _This is telepathy, not teleportation._ _There is a limit to how much we can touch, I think._

He gets something of a seething response, but it appears to be directed at the world in general rather than at him. **I will make do with what we have.** And he slides his hand back up until they’re palm-adjacent again, pressed flush and firm. With time, and the realisation that Chrysanthe isn’t going anywhere, that sort of frenzy lessens, but it never quite goes away. Miraak is still staring at him intensely - even covered by that impassive mask, he doesn’t need to see it when he can feel it - and Chry finds it difficult to break the gaze. It’s a trance that works both ways though, he thinks Miraak feels just as pinned in place as he does.

Suddenly, abruptly, it’s too much. A spate of dizziness tells him he can’t keep this up. _We should… we should let go,_ he says, though it emerges much shakier than he’d like. _We should stop._

He gets a sharp spike of refusal in response, though to his credit Miraak does at least recognise this and reigns himself back in. **Why? You’re not in pain. I would be able to feel if you were.**

Not pain perhaps, but he can feel his magicka slipping away, and he knows that the lower that gets the harder the connection is to maintain, and the worse he feels on waking. _Anything physical makes our connection a lot more taxing on me. Either we keep doing this and cut our conversation short, or we stop and I can stay here longer with you. I would prefer the latter._

He knows Miraak doesn’t like the idea of them separating, oh how he knows. But he also feels where that angry instinct to deny and control gives way to frustration that Chrysanthe is correct, then acceptance that he would rather prolong their time together than have it end abruptly as it has before. **I want to touch again, in future conversations. Will you let me?**

Well that was a demand, but at least he followed it up with a question. It’s progress. _I will if you ask me first, and don’t hold on for too long._

If he’s being completely honest with himself, he likes the physical connection with Miraak too. Even when he can feel it weakening him, the press of fingers to his own reminds him that Miraak is _real_ , that another Dragonborn out there is _real_. Maybe Miraak can sense this, for he feels agreement in response to his statement, and then he feels comfortable enough to try breaking their contact. It’s actually something of an effort to pull his hand away from Miraak’s, but then it suddenly snaps back as though it came unglued - an inch of distance that represents so, so much more. Miraak leans in, chasing, but he doesn’t try to grab Chrysanthe a second time, and afterwards he retreats again to put a more respectable distance between them. Progress, progress.

He shivers a little at the sharp-edged disappointment that chases their severance, as though the other man had lost something far greater than the mere connection of hands. It’s such a sense of loss that he has to ask: _How long has it been since - since you did anything like that?_

 **You know how long I have been in Apocrypha,** Miraak says simply.

_You didn’t find anyone else there? A lot of people make deals with Mora and end up in his realm._

**They go mad and twist into his seekers before long. Half of them are already mad when they come here. You are the first… rational mind I have conversed with for some time.** Miraak looks at his own hand, flexing his gloved fingers slightly. Chrysanthe’s own fingers still feel like they’re fizzing; he wonders if Miraak experiences something similar. **None shared anything like this. I have my dragons, but scales make a poor substitute for human contact. I did not…**

A pause, then. Trepidation, through their shared bond, at saying more. Chrysanthe tries to send back something coaxing, encouraging. Whether it’s this that makes Miraak continue or Miraak’s realisation that there’s no sense hiding his uncertainty when Chrysanthe can feel it anyway, he doesn’t know.

 **I did not yearn for this until I had it again,** he admits at last. The feeling that accompanies this is one of turmoil. **That time in Apocrypha, with the gate. Once I felt you I could think of nothing else. I thought it some deliberate scheme on your part, but now I do not think it was. Did you truly not realise what you did to me?**

His pulse flutters. Sometimes he wonders if Miraak is capable of saying _anything_ that isn’t a grandiose declaration. It’s partly to do with the time period he existed in - at least he assumes so, the one other dragon priest who spoke to him shared Miraak’s clipped turn of phrase - but he can also definitely tell that the man used to be an orator, and a very good one at that. _No, I… I didn’t know._

Miraak is silent in response to this, lost in tumultuous thoughts he elects not to share with Chrysanthe. The sense of mourning is growing increasingly bleak, so Chry fumbles for a change in conversation: _Earlier today after that dragon fight, you said you would help me with Alduin._

 **I said I would defeat Alduin if I needed to,** Miraak corrects. This earns Chrysanthe some exasperation, but this is a welcome reprieve from the bitter loss of before. **Must we speak of these things now?**

He needs to move the conversation along or the intensity of Miraak’s feelings will exhaust him once again. Also, yes. _It needs to be discussed. The key to defeating him is a Shout that knocks dragons from the skies. Do you know of it?_

Miraak still feels a bit forlorn, but- **No such Shout exists.** **If it did, I would have learned it.**

That’s a good point, but it does raise another question. _How did the people of your time expect you to defeat Alduin without the Shout then?_

 **How should I know? Both the tutelage of the Greybeards and the prophecy of the Blades came after me. I had a handful of so-called allies who pointed me at Alduin and expected me to take care of the rest, and then had the gall to be shocked when I refused to obey**.

Chrysanthe’s heart twists painfully to hear that. Of course Miraak didn’t have any support, he was the first of his kind. No-one would have known _what_ to do with him. No wonder he ended up treading down the path he did.

Unfortunately his empathy bleeds through the telepathic link, and Miraak is less than receptive. **Stop. I do not need your pity, the choices I made were mine.**

_It could have been different if you’d had the help you needed from the beginning._

**I doubt it,** he remarks, with a touch of bitterness. **We should not dwell on pasts that never were. To answer you, I know not of this Shout or why you would need it - why bring Alduin down to you when you could fly up to him?**

 _Well, not all of us have a dragon we can ride around on._ A pause. _Wait._

**What?**

_Is that why you learned the Bend Will Shout?_ Chrysanthe asks, numb with realisation. _Something that could control dragons. Was it so you could use them to help fight Alduin? Was it to use ** **on**** Alduin?_

 **I was under no belief that the Shout would make Alduin bow. Though I admit it crossed my mind,** Miraak responds carefully. **But when I learned the Shout I knew it would make an enemy of Alduin so in a sense yes, it was to use against him. Before Hermaeus Mora offered this to me the idea of overthrowing Alduin was beyond possibility. Suddenly, it no longer was.**

 _So you weren’t just after power._ He knew it, he knew there was more to the whole story than the Skaal tales and what little literature he could find. Everything claimed Miraak was a traitorous schemer but it was all written from the perspective of his enemies.

 **You are pleased with yourself, aren’t you? I _was_ after power, for your information. **This cuts Chrysanthe’s jubilation short and, feeling this, he gets a tickle of dark amusement from Miraak in response. **You simply assume that is a bad thing. If I had the strength and guile to overthrow my cruel masters, is it such a crime that I would want to take their throne? Would I not deserve it, after my efforts?**

 _I - well-_ no he’s not going to be talked into Miraak’s way of thinking! _If you replace one cruel master with another, how does anything change? And you did want to see change in the world, or you wouldn’t have rebelled. You already ruled as a king, you had every comfort you could have ever wanted bestowed on you._

 **I did not have my freedom. A slave that wears a crown is still a slave,** Miraak reminds him. **You once said you believed me more than a power-hungry traitor. It caught me by surprise that you would think such when no other has.** He pauses thoughtfully then, curling and uncurling his fingers again. **You were not wrong - I wanted power and conquest, but above all I wanted independence. But still, I am not the secret noble heart you would like me to be.**

Chrysanthe bites down on his lip. He’ll never be pure, Idgrod said. But for you he’ll try. _I don’t believe my faith in you was misplaced. I don’t need you to be a noble heart. I just need you to not be a tyrant._

 **I am unsure how to be anything else.** Miraak feels confused, but that’s good, that means he’ll think about this later. The confusion is set aside for resignation. **It matters not. I traded the shackles of dragons for those of Apocrypha. Until I am freed, all I am is another prisoner.**

 _We’ll find a way._ The subject of Miraak’s freedom, namely how he’s going to achieve it, is one that often leads to arguments. A good time to cut this conversation short then, and Chrysanthe is feeling tired as well. _Miraak, I need to go._

 **No,** is the reflexive response. But there’s no choice in the matter, as well he knows. It’s yet more progress that rather than another demand, he asks: **Is there no way you can stay longer?**

_Not without hurting me, and the more this hurts me the less often I can do it. I’ll return when I can, though, and we’ll touch again._

**Yes,** Miraak agrees readily, raspingly, with a stirring of that hunger once again. It leaves Chrysanthe a little flustered but it’s better than ending their conversation on a depressed note. This, he assumes, is the feeling he leaves Miraak with as he departs.

-

When he opens his eyes, evening has turned to morning, warm light streaming in through the windows. Unfortunately despite being laid down in bed unmoving for hours, he doesn’t have the same sense of restfulness he would after a night’s sleep - rather it feels like he’s done the equivalent of toss and turn all night. Still, at least he didn’t lie in trance until the afternoon. He’d asked Lucien to come and check on him as a precaution, but he’s glad it hasn’t actually come down to someone having to try and snap him out of it.

For a time he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, going over what happened. They spoke. They touched. His right hand still tingles like he’s been electrocuted; he lifts it wearily, the limb feeling far too heavy, to inspect for any damage, but he finds none. And no ring, _damn it_ he forgot to ask for it back. Miraak might have actually given it to him this time too. He lets his arm drop limply back down with a sigh.

Their talk was intense. He is yet to have a conversation with Miraak that is _not_ intense, but that was… a lot. Even their post-dragon fight conversations often leave his heart in his throat, but it really doesn’t compare to the telepathy. There is nothing that shields him from the other Dragonborn’s feelings towards him, which are often staggering in their magnitude and constantly conflicted. Miraak wants to kill Chrysanthe and take his soul. Miraak wants to hold Chrysanthe and never let go.

He did hold Chrysanthe, in as far as the telepathy would allow him to. Nothing could compare to the bone-deep satisfaction from Miraak when he finally had Chrysanthe in his hands, and the all too swift realisation that it wasn’t enough. _I must have more,_ he’d said. And there had been that longing, that… that _lust_ , what else can it be described as? He’d claim it wasn’t sexual, as though past the point of sex, but he’s fooling no-one. Least of all Miraak, who uses phrases like _I want to touch_ and _let me feel more_ and _I yearn for this,_ and really, why would you speak like that with someone if your feelings towards them were purely platonic?

And it-

It isn’t _unwanted_ , exactly-

The altmer rolls over in his bed with a flustered sound, very very glad that he sent all company away. His breathing is laboured, his pulse is erratic, his skin is tingling. He is… not used to this sort of thing. He’s felt physical attraction to exactly _no-one_ for as long as he can remember, aka since the cave. He’s found warm camaraderie, friendship, fondness, but he’s never once looked at anyone and wanted to bed them, or them to bed him, or whatever.

And then there’s Miraak with his growly voice and his stupid broad shoulders and - and - _argh._ He doesn’t even know what he looks like under the mask, he might be hideous. But of course, deep down he knows that even that wouldn’t matter, not really. He’s attracted to the aura, the confidence, the cleverness, the _power._

“Is this another dragon-soul thing or is this just a me thing?” he says unhappily to the ceiling, as though some Divine will descend to answer him. “Why can’t I just like a nice pair of legs like a normal person huh?”

He spends a short while fuming further about this, and when he’s finally calmed down he pulls himself sluggishly from bed for food and fresh air. He has to stop thinking about how and why he finds Miraak appealing, or frankly he isn’t going to get anything done. By the time Lucien comes over he’s banished those thoughts to the darkest recesses of his mind, and he carefully edits all of that out of his retelling.

It’s only when he recounts the events that he realises how much he learned in that last conversation, almost more than he has in all his other talks with Miraak put together. Chiefly that Miraak wanted power, yes, but the reason he ended up effectively selling his soul for it was that Hermaeus Mora offered something that could overthrow Alduin. The truly staggering thing is that, if he thinks about it, it might just have worked too. He very much doubts Alduin would succumb to Bend Will, but if every other dragon under his command did… how powerful could a tyrant be, without minions? Alduin would not have been defeated in the sense of being killed, but he could have been stripped of his kingdom.

For now however, Chrysanthe’s main lead is to speak with the Greybeards and see if they know of this Shout. The monastic order came long after Miraak so perhaps they acquired some knowledge that Miraak himself did not…

-

Tired though he still is, as soon as he feels up to travelling he resumes the journey to High Hrothgar, cutting through the mountain pass to the Rift and up to Ivarstead. Marches up the seven thousand steps with help a few stamina potions, a trek he calls _bracing_ and Lucien calls _torture._ And then he’s there before the great stone temple, and Arngeir comes to greet him.

It’s been some time since he was last here and he has plenty to tell, but he sticks to the parts about Alduin’s Wall. As he thought, the Greybeards have as much love for the Blades as the Blades do for the Greybeards. They do know of a Shout that once pulled Alduin from the skies, _Dragonrend_ , but it has been lost to time - semi-deliberately, for the Greybeards have reservations about him learning it at all.

“It was crafted by mortals from their hatred of dragons,” Arngeir warns him. “I would not see you take this hatred into yourself as well.”

He’s reminded of Delphine’s opposing argument: _I just don’t want to see your potential go to waste._ Action versus caution. Zealotry versus passiveness. He stays non-committal, for now. And Arngeir, even if he doesn’t want Chrysanthe to learn or use Dragonrend, at least points him in the direction of who might teach him - the leader and lore-keeper of the Greybeards, Paarthurnax. They teach him a Shout that will clear the impassable weather of the mountain trail, their last gift. As a return gesture of goodwill, he acquiesces to Arngeir’s reluctance to let Lucien visit the summit as well, opting to leave the scholar back in High Hrothgar.

“Well if the Greybeards leader is anything like the rest of them, they’re probably not interested in speaking to little old me anyway,” Lucien sighs. He has of course tried to pepper Arngeir with questions before, giving up after one too many cryptic wise-old-man responses. “That and I’ve climbed up all the mountain my legs can take. Just… be careful, alright? This Paarthurnax sounds… well…”

Chrysanthe frowns. “Sounds what?”

“I just mean the name is a little odd-sounding and, well…” the scholar shakes his head. “Never mind, I’m reading too much into it I think. I’ll be waiting down here for you.”

So he climbs to the summit, chasing away fog and high winds with his newest Shout, until at last-

Even going in ready to expect the unexpected, he still finds himself breathless with surprise when he is greeted not with an elder in muted robes. Rather, from the brilliant blue skies descends scales, wings and claws, all dull with age but no less imposing. Now he understands why the name gave Lucien pause - it is not mortal, it is draconic.

“ _Drem Yol Lok_. Greetings, _wunduniik_. I am Paarthurnax.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Nahagliiv, ziil gro dovah ulse! SLEN TLID VO!_ \- “Nahagliiv, I bind your dragon spirit for eternity! TIME FLESH UNDO.”  
>  _Drem Yol Lok_ \- literally “peace fire sky”, used as a dragon form of greeting  
>  _Wunduniik_ \- “traveller”
> 
> -
> 
> So after doing Sky Haven Temple I did actually see Alduin waking up Nahagliiv outside Rorikstead. I didn’t even know you could still witness Alduin flying around the world after he wakes up the first one in Kynesgrove, but apparently you can.
> 
> I’m not 100% sure if my Dragonrend Shout lore is correct but as I understand it… it was crafted by the three nord heroes who Miraak originally refused to help, who in turn were taught how to Shout by Paarthurnax. The fact that Miraak doesn’t know the Shout (we know this because his dragons are surprised if you use it on them) suggests that it was created _after_ Miraak disappeared. That means when the three heroes first approached Miraak they didn’t actually have anything that could help defeat Alduin, which might have factored in to why Miraak refused and tried to do things his way instead.
> 
> So having taken Lucien along on the Throat of the World quest, he does actually muse about Paarthurnax’s name. You can also take him to the summit no problems, but story-wise it felt a bit weird. The moment has too much gravitas for happy little scholar friends to tag along, sorry Lucien!


	9. Chapter 9

So they converse. _Tinvaak_ , as Paarthurnax calls it. He learns what he needs to about Dragonrend - that the only way to learn it is to glimpse the past, and the only way to do _that_ is to acquire an elder scroll. Elder scrolls are the sort of Serious Business Magic that makes Chrysanthe feel like he’s wildly out of his depth once again and so he finds his thoughts… drifting. To someone who would not balk at the task before them half as much as Chrysanthe does.

“Paarthurnax,” he says, not without hesitation, “May I ask you something else?”

“Of course, _Dovahkiin_.” The old dragon appears to take great pleasure in conversation despite living on a remote mountaintop.

“Have you heard of a man named Miraak?”

The elder actually looks surprised, an odd expression on a dragon. “Miraak? You mean _Diist Dovahkiin,_ first of your kind? I walked Nirn when he did, yes. But that name has not been spoken for thousands of years.”

“Ever since he disappeared,” Chrysanthe confirms. “He was taken by Hermaeus Mora to Apocrypha, were you aware of that?”

Paarthurnax tilts his head in realisation, tone wary. “You have encountered him. He still lives, after all this time?”

It is disheartening to hear the caution in Paarthurnax’s voice, though he shouldn’t be too surprised. It seems Paarthurnax also rebelled against Alduin, but in nearly so bloody of a way as Miraak did. “He lives. He’s a prisoner of Mora, not a servant, and he’s trying to escape,” Chrysanthe explains. “I stopped his initial attempt because it brought harm to the people of Solstheim, but I have been communicating with him in the hopes of finding another way. I would like to free him, if I can also redeem him.”

“No easy task. Miraak was a mighty priest in his day and committed many cruel acts both in the name of the dov, and against them.” Here Paarthurnax gives a soft sort of sound, like a thought has just been realised. “If you would do this, I will try to help.”

“I- wait, really?” That wasn’t what he expected at all. Few people even know of Miraak, and of those he thinks fewer still would support Chrysanthe’s efforts towards him. That’s why he’s kept his connection to Miraak from the Blades, from the Greybeards, from the Skaal and everyone else. “You really want to help me? Why?”

Paarthurnax gives him what he _thinks_ might be a smile, but it’s hard to truly tell. “Let us say he and I have much in common. _Prodah_ , as a warning, from what I remember of him redemption will not come easy. I assume you have already realised this.”

“I have definitely realised this,” Chrysanthe remarks with a sigh, which gets a huff of something like laughter from the elder. He is, however, rather happy - almost giddy - at the prospect of someone accepting that Miraak can be redeemed. Lucien’s support has been more or less unwavering of course, and Idgrod gave him her insight, but it’s something else to hear it from the mouth of a dragon. Particularly a dragon who existed in the same time Miraak did. “Can you tell me anything about him? Did you know him personally?”

“Not personally, but he was notable among the priesthood. I will recall… _drem_ , patience for me. It was a long, long time ago.” Paarthurnax reflects on it quietly for a moment. “I do not know of his origins but I believe he was given to the temple young, as many _joorre -_ hrm, mortals I mean, who show promise with magic are. He picked up Dovahzul like he had always spoken it, and of course he could speak with the _Thu’um_ , which was unheard of.”

That’s right. The first people to use the _Thu’um_ \- the nord heroes - were taught by Paarthurnax himself, meaning no mortal had been able to Shout before then. “That must have surprised you. Did the dov consider him a threat?”

Paarthurnax shakes his head. “We did not yet know he could take the souls of dovah on slaying them. Neither did he – remember that he would not turn against his masters for many more years. No _joor_ could kill us permanently, so there was no reason to be afraid.” The dragon gives a thoughtful sound, “It was realised eventually that his _sil_ , soul, took the shape of a dragon, but as far as the dov were concerned, he was still mortal. So he was watched with great interest, but not fear.”

Staggering, Chrysanthe thinks, to be so powerful that nothing in the world posed a threat to you. It does explain why Alduin hasn’t made a more concentrated effort to kill him now, even though he assuredly could - the concept that Chrysanthe might pose any risk to him is completely unfathomable. He would say that will be Alduin’s downfall, but everything so far points towards the fact that Alduin is quite justified in thinking himself above defeat.

“This and his talents made him a prized servant among dov, something of a trophy,” Paarthurnax continues. “In exchange for shows of loyalty he was bestowed with a grand temple, treasures, comforts, servants, anything else he desired. Mortals like these things, you see. Dovah do as well, but – hmm, I do not think this is a saying you would know, but the meaning is clear enough - what good are jewelled wings if you cannot fly?”

“A slave that wears a crown is still a slave,” Chrysanthe murmurs in response.

“Just so,” Paarthurnax nods. “Miraak is _dovah_ , not _joor_. All the riches in the world would not have satisfied him. But knowledge on how to overthrow one’s masters… and there you see, is how Hermaeus Mora swayed him. You know the rest of the tale, I assume.” When Chry nods, the dragon studies him curiously. “ _Dovahkiin_ , I have answered your question. I ask this in return: why do you wish to redeem Miraak?”

“I…” Chrysanthe swallows. “I don’t really know.”

The dovah gives a rumbling laugh. “That is not an untrue answer, but you can give me a better one.”

It’s a fair point. “I suppose I feel… drawn to him somehow. As though there’s something tying us together,” he says unsurely. “I don’t understand it, but I know it’s there. Many others have picked up on it as well - the Psijic mages could see it, and even a dragon priest I fought in Labyrinthian connected me to Miraak, despite knowing nothing about me.” He looks imploringly at the elder dragon - Paarthurnax probably doesn’t have _all_ the answers, but he’s counting on him knowing quite a lot of them. “Do you know what this is? Is it a dragon thing?”

Paarthurnax hums thoughtfully. “Yes and no. You feel the pull of _dez_ , fate. As _D_ _ovahkiin_ you are attuned to this more than most mortals, and in particular your destiny is strongly linked to his. But you knew this - it could be nothing else, no?”

“I suppose I did know that,” Chrysanthe admits. “I just don’t understand _why_ our fates are so linked. Is it because we’re both Dragonborn?”

“It is significant. For two Dragonborn to exist within the same fragment of time… this has never happened before. I wonder if it is perhaps with good reason,” Paarthurnax muses. “I have some thoughts but… _Fin tiid lost ni tul bo_. I cannot claim anything with certainty. Follow the winds of fate though, and I believe you will find your answer eventually.”

“I see.” He bows his head then, thinking. “I have another question if that’s alright.”

“ _Pruzah!_ You like a good _tinvaak_ I see, this pleases me. What would you ask?”

He pauses. Should he admit this? Paarthurnax said he would support, but still… “I’d like Miraak’s help in defeating Alduin, and ideally I’d like to find the elder scroll with him. But I need to free him first, do I have time to do this? I don’t know how long it will take, or how much longer we have left before Alduin destroys everything.”

“Hrmm. I do not know either, but I will say that Alduin is in no particular _rush_ to raze the world. He does, after all, have an immortality to do it in,” Paarthurnax points out. “The greater a threat you become to him the more you will force his hand - beckoning the end even as you work to delay it. Move slowly, and Alduin will also move slowly.”

“So there is time.” Alright, okay. That’s a relief.

Paarthurnax gives what is best described as a shrug. “So long as you do not delay forever. Or do, if you welcome the end as many would.”

-

“…Then once Miraak disappeared, Paarthurnax taught the nord heroes how to use the _Thu’um_ , they crafted Dragonrend, Alduin was thrown forward in time, and here we are,” Chrysanthe finishes. “Now we have to go _back_ in time to learn the Shout from them, and that means we have to find an elder scroll. Any thoughts on where to find one?”

Lucien, who has followed this fast-flowing explanation remarkably well, rubs at his chin. “Well they had oodles of them in the Imperial City up until recently, but not anymore. And the only place I can think to start asking is… ahh, you won’t like this… the College of Winterhold.”

Chrysanthe heaves a great sigh. “I don’t think I’m ready to return to Winterhold yet, Lucien. I still have some shock burns from that fight with Ancano.”

So he opts to wander for a bit longer instead. He goes to the Reach, drops by Sky Haven Temple to see if Esbern knows of an alternate elder scroll source than the College of Winterhold, but unfortunately he does not. He and Delphine have cleaned the dusty old temple up quite a bit in Chrysanthe’s absence, it looks like the Blades might actually _be_ something again. Chry has to admit that, while the Greybeards call the Blades dragon-genocide fanatics, the dragons are currently working on a genocide of their own so the world needs something to combat that. He might clash with Delphine but she’s a capable leader, so he promises to send some recruits her way should he come across anyone suitable.

He also takes a set of the Akaviri-inspired armour. He debates whether or not he should wear it for a long, long time before he gives up and finally dons it. It’s sturdy and form-fitting, less of a bulwark than most of the heavy armour he comes across, and (this is perhaps shallow of him, but) he likes the shade of blue. He’ll just have to live with the dragon-slaying connotations.

Western Skyrim keeps him occupied; in his hurry to leave Markarth behind after That Forsworn Incident he left much of the Reach unexplored. Then he’s back to Solitude sooner than expected after Falk Firebeard writes to him about a semi-resurrected Wolf Queen Potema causing trouble (he _knew_ interrupting that first ritual wasn’t enough). Then he’s back in the Pale.

Lucien accompanies him through much of this, but it’s apparent that the relentless pace Chrysanthe sets tires his friend out. Lucien won’t readily admit when he’s been pushed too far but Chry gets good at spotting it, dropping Lucien in a nice safe city for a few days while he explores solo, and returning later to resume together. He gets tired too of course, but nowhere near as easily as Lucien does. As a mortal does, he thinks a little wistfully.

-

The breaks do allow him to speak to Miraak at length. Over the course of their talks the man has gone from overwhelmingly domineering to… _civilised_ would be pushing it, but it’s less feral than he was before. It’s a progress that is marked in inches rather than miles however; Miraak simply wants to be in charge, all the time.

This is no different. As soon as Chrysanthe forms a connection Miraak is in front of him, as close as Chry will let him be and always, always straining to get closer. **You are here. Touch. Let me touch.**

He always feels so hungry, so deprived. There’s a part of Chrysanthe that remains unnerved by how _visceral_ Miraak’s feelings are, but there’s an increasingly large part of him that just feels sad. It speaks volumes that something so simple as a touch of hands makes Miraak act as a man in a desert does to water.

As soon as Miraak feels that sadness he clamps down on it. **Stop that. I do not want you to feel sorry for me, just do what I want.**

Chrysanthe shakes his head. _If we do that, you will be upset again when we have to stop._ The response to this is immediate and nothing less than seething, so Chry smooths it over before Miraak can comment: _Why don’t we talk, then touch? Then our conversation will end on a better note than last time._

The bubbling anger simmers down a little. Miraak looks at him warily. **But you will let me feel you?**

Chrysanthe swallows, suddenly too hot for his liking. Miraak’s turn of phrase is always so… _Yes. I will._

Miraak settles down at that, though he does eye Chry thoughtfully. Chry wills his fluster away, really hopes that Miraak didn’t pick up on it, resignedly suspects that he did. But the man doesn’t comment, and merely says, **Then we will talk. Where are you in Skyrim? You have not fought a dragon for some time.** A pause. **Why are you amused?**

 _Sorry, it’s just-_ he snickers into his hand. _Our small talk is ‘how is the dragon hunting going?’ Not discussing the weather or anything so mundane._

 **The weather in Apocrypha is green and slimy,** Miraak responds dryly, and when Chry actually does laugh of that there’s something warm in response - but it is stamped down before Chrysanthe can really pinpoint it, and may well have been a figment of his imagination. **I am more interested in Nirn. Taking your dragon souls affords me a glimpse of it. Are there no dragons nearby you could slay?**

 _They’ve been scarce lately. I could try to find one for you,_ Chrysanthe offers.

 **Perhaps,** Miraak hums, but does not seem too invested in the idea. **Do you still search for that Shout of yours?**

 _I haven’t found it yet but I’m making progress._ He’d go into further detail but telling Miraak that he’s searching for an elder scroll seems like… a bad idea. He wouldn’t put it past Miraak to have his cultists start searching for the item as well, and while he knows by now that not just anyone can rewrite history on a whim once they get their hands on one, but he wouldn’t put it past Miraak to try. What he can do however is tell Miraak about something else, or someone else rather: _I spoke to the leader of the Greybeards about it. It was a dragon named Paarthurnax._

 **Paarthurnax?** Miraak repeats, and Chrysanthe is caught unawares by the feeling that accompanies it: a rush of dislike so intense it almost creeps into hatred, and a great sense of - not _fear_ , but definitely wariness. **That name belonged to one of Alduin’s closest lieutenants.**

He leans in with interest - he knows they knew of each other, and he’d like to hear Miraak’s side of the story. _It’s the same dragon. He’s very old._

Miraak frowns, more at Chrysanthe’s reaction than anything else. **This does not alarm you? He was a great ally to the World-Eater and was regarded with nearly as much fear, with good reason.**

Chrysanthe doesn’t doubt that, everything he’s read says that dragons slaughtered or enslaved the lesser races under Alduin’s rule and Paarthurnax would have been no exception. But much like Miraak there is always more to events than what is recorded in history books - what choice would Paarthurnax have had, but to do his overlord’s bidding? He conspired against him in secret, and succeeded at that; Chrysanthe will take his final actions as the marker to judge him by not his earlier ones, however wicked they were.

So he points that out: _An ally right up until he betrayed Alduin, yes._ _Paarthurnax taught the three nord heroes - the same ones who approached you, correct? - how to Shout, after you disappeared. They created Dragonrend, that’s the Shout I’m looking for. Without that Alduin never would have been overthrown the first time._

**Perhaps he was trying to seize power for himself.**

But of course this wasn’t the case, Chrysanthe knows it, and Miraak knows it too. Because if he was Paarthurnax’s name would have appeared in the history books as the next tyrant to fall after Alduin, and Miraak would have read about it. _He went and lived in isolation atop a mountain for millennia afterwards, so I don’t think that was it._

 **He must have wanted something. All dov want something,** Miraak insists, not quite able to wrap his head around the idea of a dragon acting altruistically. Chrysanthe can’t really blame him for that one. **He spoke with you? Peacefully?**

_Peacefully. Then he told me where to look next to find Dragonrend._

Miraak shakes his head in disbelief. **That makes no sense. He brought much suffering and brutality to mankind in Alduin’s name.**

 _Yes,_ Chrysanthe says simply, _So did you, once._

Miraak is silent, and very confused. But confused is good - the more he challenges the man’s beliefs, the more he undoes the vicious attitudes that the dragon priesthood instilled in him.

Then there’s a note of realisation. **Wait, ‘so did you’? You spoke to him about me. What did he tell you?**

He wondered if Miraak would pick up on that. There’s no sense in denying it, and Miraak would be able to tell if he was lying anyway. _I did. He didn’t know you well, but he remembered that you joined the temple young and rose quickly, especially once they found out you were Dragonborn. He said that you were prized by the dragons, but they saw you as a mortal rather than one of their own. This was their undoing, because you rose up against them like any imprisoned dovah would._

 **How insightful of him,** is spoken in the tones of someone searching for an ulterior motive, before Miraak finally gives up and moves on: **He is right, we did not know each other personally. I wondered if he knew more of my early life, but no matter.**

Odd statement. _Early life?_

 **Before the temple,** Miraak clarifies, **Paarthurnax likely knows more about that period of my life than I do. I traded my earliest memories to Mora for comforts in Apocrypha.**

Chrysanthe’s jaw just about drops. _You did? Willingly?_

 **Yes. I remember my naming ceremony when I became a full-fledged priest, and nothing before that. I do not know what I lost – of course – but I remember that I was unsentimental when I gave them up. Perhaps they were unhappy memories.** Miraak still sounds unsentimental, but Chrysanthe supposes if he was well aware of what he was losing at the time, the loss would not be felt so keenly. Why did he ask about them though? Perhaps he thought that out too loud, for Miraak answers him: **It would have been a small victory against Mora to re-learn those memories from another source, that is all.**

 _But why would Mora take those memories from you in the first place?_ Stealing memories is more Vaermina’s style. And Mora has already told Chrysanthe that he knows everything Miraak knows anyway. _What does he gain from it?_

Miraak tips his head thoughtfully. His thoughts are… unsettled is the best word Chrysanthe can come up with. There’s an anger there, directed at Mora, but it’s an old and tarnished sort of anger that has existed too long to have any real fire to it anymore. **Something I have learned about Hermaeus Mora,** he murmurs, **Is that the knowledge he prizes above all else is that which is known only to him. That is why you will find mere whispers of me in history. Mora erased my name, piece by piece, until the only one who knew of my existence was Mora himself.**

Chrysanthe nods along with this - he’s mused before that Miraak was so significant in the dragon cult and yet mentioned almost nowhere, and whether Mora had anything to do with that. His heart feels a little heavy at the confirmation that it was all deliberate. Maybe that’s a bit of Miraak too, but he can’t be sure.

 **Still, there are whispers of my name that even Mora cannot be rid of,** Miraak continues, **But what he does singularly possess is who I was before I was Miraak. All records of it destroyed, anyone who would have known it killed or forever silenced. Until the only one who remembered was me, and then he tricked that from me as well.** That old fury flickers, a flame briefly fanned, but resignation smothers it once more. **I do not miss the memories. I do not think they were particularly precious to me. But they were precious to Mora, and so I regret giving him what he wanted.**

Chry nods quietly. The part about Hermaeus Mora hoarding knowledge does make sense; even if he didn’t gain any knowledge per se, he has deprived the rest of the world of it, Miraak included. He also muses that it leaves Miraak with only memories of the priesthood to draw upon, no warmth of a parent or guardian, no friendship-rivalry bond of a sibling.

Of course, Chrysanthe also has none of these things. It’s yet another thing he and Miraak bizarrely have in common. He debates mentioning it, but he doesn’t know if he should.

But his uncertainty is detected by Miraak, who asks: **What is it? You are unsure of something.**

 _I…_ he sighs. He’s wary of telling Miraak anything about himself, because loathe as he is to admit it they’re still somewhat enemies - at least, according to Miraak - and the man may try to use any knowledge against him. But he can’t think of any way this could really be exploited, so… _I have no early memories either. The magic that enthralled me took all of them. The first thing I knew was waking up in the cave._

He is surprised to find that Miraak is _not_ surprised at all, and rather only reacts with a feeling of affirmation. **I thought as much.** At Chrysanthe’s confusion, he clarifies: **Thrall magic wipes the mind. Usually this is irreversible - it is certain that you only recovered yourself because you are Dragonborn, but I am unsurprised that it took your memories. A small price to pay, considering.** He pauses, as though realising something. **So that memory with the cave and the man in black was your earliest?**

 _Almost. I woke and saw my ring-_ he startles, remembering. _My ring! Do you still have it?_

**Naturally.**

_I want-_ No no, he needs to phrase it as a question rather than a demand. Miraak tends to repay aggressiveness with more aggressiveness. _I would like it back. Will you give it to me?_

There’s a disagreeable feeling from the other man. **I would rather keep it.**

Chrysanthe sighs deeply. The ring is useless to Miraak, he only wants it because Chry wants it. _Miraak. You don’t gain anything by holding it over me. I’ve even agreed that we can touch - within reason - so it’s not a bargaining chip anymore._

 **It is a victory over Hermaeus Mora. A piece of Nirn that made it into Apocrypha without his consent,** Miraak says, but it feels… odd. He’s lying, Chrysanthe suddenly realises. He hasn’t really come across this before - Miraak is many things but a liar isn’t one of them, he has always been straight-forward in his declarations.

He leans forward, both confused and fascinated as to why Miraak would be untruthful now, and about this: _That’s not the real reason._

He gets a scowl. **I am not obliged to tell you anything more. I will keep the ring.**

Now he just really wants to know. He doubts Miraak will just tell him, but perhaps if he offers something in return: _We still need to touch. Why don’t we do that and you can tell me why you want to keep it?_ Further reluctance. _The last time it went from my hand to yours we touched a great deal. Passing it back would likely involve the same._

Miraak growls, but beneath the disapproval Chrysanthe can feel that stirring of hunger resurfacing at the prospect. **Why must you bait me like this? You know what you are doing to me.**

He does. He does know. Bargaining with Miraak is not unlike dangling meat in front of a wolf… or more accurately, a dragon. He’s as liable to get his fingers bitten as he is to get his ring back but he does have to try. _I’m only offering you something you want in exchange for something I want._

 **I think you just like playing with fire,** Miraak retorts. Chrysanthe feels a little called out, but he must grudgingly admit that the man isn’t wrong. He offers touch to Miraak knowing it will make him more domineering in response, but there’s a complicated mix of wanting to draw out his aggressiveness so he can better soothe it, and simply wanting to ease that terrible loneliness he sometimes gets from his counterpart.

But despite feeling baited Miraak does reach into his robes and pull out the gold ring, slipping it on to his little finger; he’s broader-handed than Chrysanthe and so it doesn’t fit comfortably onto his ring finger where it ought to sit. He holds up his hand for Chrysanthe to touch. **Fine. We will touch and see if I can return it to you.**

Chrysanthe reaches out, bypasses that resistance between them, feels the pull on his magicka as he crosses barriers that shouldn’t be crossed. Then he can feel it - the material of Miraak’s gloves, the faint warmth of the skin beneath. In sharp contrast, the cool metal of the band around his finger. _Touching._ Like last time, the joining of their fingers sends little jolts throughout him, not unpleasant, but far more than any simple touch would warrant. Miraak exhales slowly, evidently trying to keep a better handle on his reactions this time. He can’t hide how he feels though; Miraak longs for human contact so badly, and is therefore satisfied beyond measure when he receives it.

 _There has to be other things in Apocrypha you can touch,_ Chrysanthe shakes his head, a little taken by it all. There’s a part of him that does not and cannot understand why Miraak enjoys this so much - though he imagines four thousand years of no contact would soon learn him. _Even if you couldn’t find other people you have dragons, there were seekers obedient to you._

 **It doesn’t compare,** Miraak returns, too content to sound dismissive.

At least he’s pleased. Rather than offer further comment Chry turns his attention to getting his damn ring back. He shifts his hand sideways, tries grasping at Miraak’s little finger so he can pull it free but it won’t - quite - go. As though something is pushing him back, he just can’t curl his fingers around it properly, definitely not enough to pull it free. _I can’t get it. Are you resisting me?_

 **No.** After a moment, Miraak concedes: **I don’t want you to have it. But I am not deliberately trying to keep you from it.**

 _Maybe it’s subconscious. Why do you want to keep it so badly? Is it just because I want it back?_ It’s no use, he can’t get any sort of grip on it. He gives up with a sigh, frustrated at being defeated by his own magic. _We passed it between us before, I should be able to do this again._

 **Something like that.** More untruth, so that isn’t the reason either. Miraak is amused by his frustration, which only makes him more annoyed. But eventually the man suggests, **The last time we were touching more. Do you remember? I linked our fingers.**

Chrysanthe tips his chin back, a little defiant. _Yes and then you wouldn’t let me go._

 **I was - overwhelmed,** he confesses. **I finally had you within my grasp and I didn’t know what to do with you. Holding on and not letting go was all I could think of.**

_I seem to remember plans to kill me and take my soul._

**Obviously. Inevitably. But there was a part of me that didn’t want to, and still doesn’t.**

Chrysanthe’s heart leaps into his throat, his grievances with the ring swiftly cast aside. _You should listen to that part of yourself. We don’t need to be enemies. We don’t have to fight._

 **You mistake the part of me that doesn’t want to kill you for something good,** the other returns. **What else would I do with you? Keep you here with me forever - I wouldn’t be free, but I would have you.** With this, a sharp spike of _want_ , so pointed that Chrysanthe gasps aloud. He’s reeling with lust, or something adjacent to lust. It isn’t even so much that Miraak wanted to bed him, as much as he wants to just _be with_ Chrysanthe so badly that bedding is the only analogy he can think of.

Divines. This is - it’s so - _You feel about me so strongly,_ Chrysanthe murmurs throatily before he can help himself.

 **How could I not?** Miraak returns, and the desire only surges, as though acknowledging it had fed the flames. **You ruin my designs for escape and then insist we should be allies. You conspire with my jailer and then defy him to speak with me. I want to hate you, but I can’t. I do not know how to feel about you, but I assure you it is anything but tepid.** He pushes their hands back together - he’s trying to link their fingers again Chrysanthe realises, but he comes across the same barrier that Chry did before. With a note of annoyance he gives up and settles for the firm press of their palms again. **You feel it too. You must do, or I would have frightened you off by now.**

 _You almost have a few times,_ Chry admits. Miraak’s words spin frantically in his head; not-hate is not _right_ exactly, but he’ll take what he can get. Like the other Dragonborn he can’t make heads nor tails of the feelings. Desire is as close as he can describe it, but it’s so much more convoluted. And Chrysanthe - he feels it too. Despite the fact that any sensible person _should_ have been frightened off by now, he feels it too. _It feels like there’s something that binds us. Like I can’t stay away. Do you know the feeling?_

 ** _Yes_** , Miraak says, but it emerges even more forceful than his usual tone. It’s as though the world rattles, the way it does when the Greybeards whisper _Dovahkiin_ to greet him. **Yes, I know. I sensed this from you but to hear you say it is - feels-** he inhales a sharp breath, awash with heat and possessiveness. **It is fate, I know it. I have never felt it so strongly as I have with you.**

Chrysanthe nods breathlessly in response. His whole body is shaking, though he swiftly realises it’s not just from being overwhelmed but from being exhausted. They haven’t argued, not quite, but the intensity of this conversation, the fast flow of emotions between them has spent all his magicka. He already knows he’s going to feel rough on waking but a part of him just wants to stay here, to want and be wanted like no-one else has, or could. He wants to say _I have to go,_ but he’s even having trouble focusing enough to make those words come out clearly.

But Miraak hears something, anyway. **Must we end this?** Then when Chrysanthe nods wordlessly: **Let me keep the ring.**

He huffs a laugh, just about managing: _I can’t get it off you anyway._

**Next time.**

Miraak lets go of his hand, and he slips away.

-

He feels distinctly _ugh_ when he awakes. He’s also quite flustered, skin too hot and heart thumping heavily in his chest, which doesn’t lessen until he’s paced a restless lap around Dawnstar; it’s before sunrise and so he encounters no-one but a few sleepy guards at the end of their shift who pay him little mind. He splashes himself with icy-cold seawater when no-one is looking and scowls at his pink-cheeked reflection. Not for the first time, he wonders if Miraak is doing roughly the same in Apocrypha, or if he must keep any response to their telepathic talks firmly under wraps so Hermaeus Mora doesn’t start paying closer attention. Probably the latter, which might well contribute to Miraak being pent-up, for lack of a better word, when they next speak.

Maybe pent-up is a very fitting word, actually.

He hesitates, glances around to make sure no-one is nearby, then breathes out a word onto the ocean where it can do no harm: “ **YOL!** ” A puff of fire breath skims and sizzles the frigid water before disappearing. It serves no purpose except to do _something_ that will abate the restlessness he feels; all told it only helps a bit, but it does help. But it doesn’t lessen the sting when he then hopelessly whispers: “ _Miraak._ ”

He should just return to the inn and try to get some more sleep, but he can’t make himself settle down. He can’t make this feeling stop. He needs to talk to someone but there’s only Lucien, who is not well-versed in matters of the heart, preferring the company of a good book.

But he is in Dawnstar.

He exhales sharply, turns, and starts the stride towards Nightcaller Temple.

-

Erandur is awake. That’s unsurprising, when they travelled together (so long ago, now) Erandur was always a night owl. A handover from his time as a priest of Vaermina, he’d always said, for the followers of the daedric prince of dreams performed most of their worship while the world slumbered. So Erandur is awake, and answers Chrysanthe’s knock at the temple door with puzzlement, then delight: “Chrysanthe! I did not realise you were back in Dawnstar.”

“Lucien and I only just arrived. I was meaning to stop by sooner,” Chry answers, a touch apologetic. He always tries to visit Erandur when he comes to this town. “I… might have another reason for coming to you at this hour. I could do with your counsel.”

“Of course,” Erandur welcomes him inside at once. He’s set up in the entrance hall of the now-desolate Vaermina temple, as in with a bedroll, a small fire-pit and his shrine to Mara. It’s ascetic in every sense of the word; a little too much so in Chry’s opinion, but then Erandur has never explicitly detailed just how many sins he’s atoning for. It’s not his place to judge.

The monk sits cross-legged before the Mara shrine and bids Chry to do the same. “What troubles you? Not bad dreams, I hope.”

“I’m afraid _Vaermina_ is not the daedric prince currently giving me trouble.” At Erandur’s worried look, Chry gives him a wistful smile. “Bear with me. This will take some explaining…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Paarthurnax utters a Dovahzul word every other sentence but tends to do most of the translating there and then. For the ones he doesn’t explain…  
>  _Fin tiid lost ni tul bo_ \- roughly, ‘the moment has not yet come to pass’. Yes, he deliberately mistranslated.  
>  _Pruzah!_ \- ‘Good!’  
> Also because _dov_ and _dovah_ are used liberally in this chapter - my understanding is that _dovah_ means ‘dragon(s)’ and _dov_ is more like ‘dragonkind / dragons as a whole’.
> 
> -
> 
> *Hand-holding intensifies*
> 
> This chapter is more or less one big telepathy conversation, but the bits before that translated in-game as me doing an absolute boatload side quests on the map before getting on with anything major. I’ve been trying not to advance it too far or I’ll end up with Miraak as a follower and barely any important quests left to do with him. In particular Blackreach is a big deal and the main plot sort of speeds up after that, so I’m holding off.
> 
> In-game Chry tried out many followers but Erandur was the one that stuck for longest in the early game. It wasn’t really intentional, but from a story perspective it felt like he actually influenced Chrysanthe’s character quite a lot since Erandur’s story is so centred around redemption and forgiveness. I dunno, maybe Chry just has a type (and that typed is ‘used to be a villain’).


	10. Chapter 10

It’s a long conversation.

He tries to skip over the details that aren’t really relevant. He manages to constrain his current affairs to: _so that Dragonborn thing, turns out I have to defeat Alduin or the world will end_ and the Miraak thing to: _I found another Dragonborn who could help me, but Hermaeus Mora has him prisoner. Oh, and he’s convinced he needs to kill me to escape._ He does emphasise the effort he’s put in to undoing that last part, but concedes that it’s slow progress. And he talks of how Miraak makes him feel, which he has never discussed with anyone aside from brushing the topic with Lucien.

At the end of it, Erandur leans back, and contemplates. “It is often said,” he muses at last, “That love is a very complicated thing.”

Chrysanthe makes a strangled, startled sort of noise, “I wouldn’t call it _love_.”

“Really?” Erandur asks with a wry smile, “What would you call it, then?”

Silence. “I… I don’t know,” he answers at last.

“I don’t mean to presume it is a romantic love, necessarily,” the monk adds a little apologetically, “But since the first time you met this Miraak you have done everything in your power to know more of him, empathise with him and reach out to him. You’re not subservient, but you are very devoted to him, in your own way.”

He looks at his hands. As always his eyes drift to his right ring finger and its missing band, the one currently being held by his nemesis-turned-counterpart in Apocrypha. It wasn’t a promise ring but he can’t help but feel that in its own way, it kind of was. Maybe it’s stupid, but he thinks that when he willingly let Miraak keep it - even though he never did tell Chry why he wanted the damn thing so much - he was offering up a piece of himself as well. “I suppose I am,” he murmurs at last. “It’s just strange to think of it as love when we are still at such odds.”

Erandur hums thoughtfully. “I seem to remember that the Greybeards described you as Dragonborn first, altmer second. I read more on dragons after we parted ways, for my own interest. It seems they don’t feel the warmth of love and friendship quite as mortals do, but they’re not emotionless husks either. In fact they feel very strongly, but the foremost emotions tend to be… aggression. Competitiveness. For a dragon, the line between rival and ally is much finer. Would you agree?”

“I would. Are you saying Miraak and I are the same?”

“It makes sense that the bonds you feel would be influenced by that. Though I will say, I think the fact that you feel so strongly might be the mortal side of you rather than the dragon one.” When Chry tilts his head curiously at that, he continues: “Love is one of the greatest forces there is. People write and sing and praise it, people die for it, people kill for it. Love has started and ended wars. And this was all done by mortals, not dragons.”

Chrysanthe blinks in amazement, looking down at his own hands. “So this is… normal?” he asks, somewhere between awe and disbelief. “This is just what it’s like? _Everyone_ feels like this?”

“Maybe not everyone,” Erandur concedes. “I think what you feel is some mix of the two - the heat of a dragon, the depth of a mortal, the complexity of intertwining the two. The fact that he’s also Dragonborn means he understands that complexity in a way no-one else could. I would have been more surprised if you _weren’t_ drawn to each other given your similarities, despite all the differences between you as well. He feels the same way as well, yes?”

_I want to hate you, but I can’t. I do not know how to feel about you, but I assure you it is anything but tepid._

“I don’t think he loves me,” Chrysanthe murmurs back. It hurts his chest a little to say it out loud. “He’s determined to see me as an enemy. I’ve been trying to get through to him but it feels like a sticking point.”

“From your conversations it sounds like he doesn’t relish the thought of harming you, but he feels that he has no other choice,” says Erandur. “I would normally advise you to trust in the power of Mara - let love conquer all. But in this instance…” he trails off.

Chry looks up. “What? Don’t tell me he’s right. I can’t accept it.”

“It’s not that he’s right, it’s that-” Erandur sighs. “This is… difficult to speak of. What I tell you comes from my experience not as a priest of Mara, but as an acolyte of Vaermina.”

Wide-eyed and wordless, Chrysanthe leans in.

“The daedra can… influence people. They have the power to twist minds and corrupt thoughts. They can do this in such a way that mortals do not even realise they have been changed,” the monk says with what sounds like a heavy heart. “Vaermina used to adore doing it. It was like a game, to see how far she could alter people from who they were before she started influencing their dreams. And her priesthood, they helped. We helped, _I_ helped. You could not imagine how thoroughly we ruined the lives of those Vaermina designated her playthings.”

He sounds so forlorn that Chry can’t help but try to reassure him: “But you’ve atoned for that now.”

“Aton _ing_. And will be for the rest of my days,” Erandur corrects quietly, but gives a shuddered exhale. “My original point. Many daedric princes indulge in these games and Hermaeus Mora is one of them. He whispers to mortals all the time, and he’s gotten very good at it.” The dunmer eyes Chrysanthe. “I suspect that as Dragonborn you are afforded some extra defence against this. So is this Miraak, but it has been… four thousand years, you said? No-one, no matter who or what they are, can keep the company of a daedra for that long and remain unscathed. He may hate Hermaeus Mora, but that hate does not give him immunity to the prince’s influence.”

“So you think Mora has corrupted him? Made him think that escape is so impossible that Miraak is convinced only something drastic will do the trick?” Chrysanthe bites his lip; he doesn’t know for sure if Erandur is right, but his theory does make a lot of sense. “What can I do about it? What undoes daedric corruption?”

“For me it was the love of Mara, the patience and kindness her priests showed me even when I struggled with the darkness inside me,” Erandur says softly. “But it took… time. A lot of dedication to prayer, healing and doing good before I finally felt the stain of Vaermina lifted from me. There’s no magic ritual to cleanse one’s soul in an instant.”

“Maybe if I got him to pray through telepathy…” Chrysanthe muses aloud, but immediately dismisses the idea. Miraak would scorn any religious ideology, which seems strange given that he was a priest, but he worshipped dragons not Divines. That and he suspects Miraak would insist he wasn’t influenced by Hermaeus Mora one bit. “No, that won’t work. What else is there? All I can do is keep talking to him, keep convincing him that we’re not enemies.”

“Perhaps your words will get through to him. For what it’s worth I believe that Mara is on your side, and will aid you if she can.”

Chry gives a soft, wistful sort of sound. He wants to believe that, he’s just not sure if he does. “Perhaps. Miraak has done a lot of things Mara wouldn’t approve of.”

“She accepted me, didn’t she? Granted, for all my sins I probably haven’t committed as many as a dragon priest…” Erandur admits, “But you have repaid his darkness with kindness, and that’s as close to Mara’s creed as it gets. Everyone is worthy of love, no matter who they are or what they’ve done.” He nods, sounding more sure of his sentence with every new word. The inspiration of Mara through him, perhaps? Or simply the sheer power of faith? “Let Miraak feel your compassion for him, and Mara will aid you. I know it.”

“I hope so,” Chrysanthe sighs. He has a lot to think about. “Thank you for speaking with me about it. I haven’t been able to tell anyone else and it’s good to get it off my chest.” A pause then. “Erandur? Do you really think it’s… love? That I feel?”

Erandur smiles at him. “I can think of no other word to call it by.”

-

After a little longer exchanging thoughts on love and daedra, Chrysanthe takes his leave, feeling a lot better about the whole thing, and heads back to the tavern to meet with Lucien.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders just how big of an influence Erandur has been on him. Calm, thoughtful and thoroughly invested in redemption? It sounds all too familiar. Chrysanthe is no fervent worshipper of Mara - or any of the Divines, really - but compassion and forgiveness seem to be big themes in his life. That or he just has a soft spot for people who once did wicked things and are now trying to become better people.

(And for those who are not _currently_ trying to be better, but will do if he has anything to say about it).

-

Once he leaves Dawnstar, he must reluctantly admit that he should visit Winterhold while he’s near, and so finds himself trudging up to the College. It’s much the same as he left it, maybe more disorganised with the sometimes absent-minded Tolfdir as acting Arch-Mage, with more grumbling amongst his fellows about the weak leadership. Chrysanthe is still firmly of the mindset that it should be anyone but himself however; if the current senior mages can’t decide who of them would make the best leader, one of the students will eventually be accomplished enough to step into the role. His money is on Brelyna, personally.

The archivist Urag is wary of his interest in the elder scrolls, but has a few books on the subject. One of them reads like maddened gibberish to him but the man who penned it, one Septimus Signus, resides in Skyrim and so is currently his best lead. ‘Resides’ used in the loosest sense - Chrysanthe finds him tucked away in a little ice-cave among the floating glaciers to the north-most north, along with an enormous dwemer lockbox that reminds Chry a bit too much of the Eye of Magnus for his comfort. Septimus is, it turns out, a gibbering madman, but one with just enough sense left to point Chrysanthe where he needs to go next.

Dwemer ruins. Blackreach. Chrysanthe knows of the place from books but has never found an entrance. Has never particularly wanted to - a sprawling underground network sounds like it will be crawling with falmer along with all the usual dwemer dangers. He and Lucien have come very far since their first forays into dwemer ruins, in particular since they cleared Dumzbthar with liberal help from Teldryn. Even so Chrysanthe doesn’t fancy their chances in Blackreach.

Another issue, and one he doesn’t give voice to, is that if he dies down there he doesn’t want to think about what would happen to Miraak. He supposes Miraak would strike up his plan with the All-Maker Stones again, but he can see that the man would be even more ruthless next time, command the whole of Solstheim to work around the clock as the people at the Tree Stone do. Work them to death, probably, and get his cultists to bring in more people from the mainland as slaves. It’s odd, to know that someone he’s trying to make his ally is capable of such cruelty, but he knows Miraak is, and losing his greatest prospect for escape would drive him to it.

He keeps that theory from Lucien, but he does explain his doubts about going to Blackreach. The scholar looks thoughtful: “You really think we’d struggle? We’ve fought a lot of big scary things by now.”

“It’s not big and scary, it’s about… plentiful and scary. Even I can’t hold off an army of falmer,” he points out. Falmer means chaurus too, and Chrysanthe has taken down some dragons easier than he’s taken down chaurus. Just hearing that insectoid skittering and clicking always puts him on edge. “I’m not confident in my ability to keep you safe. Obviously I can’t go alone either.”

“We could hire a team of people to accompany us?”

They could do that. Money isn’t much of an issue, but it would take time and effort to sort capable mercenaries from opportunists. That and he wouldn’t truly trust anyone to place his and Lucien’s safety over the treasures of a dwemer vault. “I’d rather-” he sighs, aware that this might be an unwise thing to say, but- “I’d rather bring Miraak with us.”

“Slight issue of him still being in Apocrypha,” Lucien points out, “Also doesn’t he still think you’re mortal enemies?”

“Yes and yes, but obviously if he were free we wouldn’t be mortal enemies anymore,” Chrysanthe retorts. Of course, there’s a point there he can’t argue: “…But we do need to spring him from Apocrypha first.”

The imperial looks initially dubious, but then sighs. “It’s your call. You’re the one who punches dragons for a living so if you say it’s too dangerous for the two of us I’m not going to argue.”

“I don’t _punch_ dragons,” he laughs, but his tone soon grows serious. “I’ve been thinking about how to free him. I don’t have many bright ideas, but I do know that I can’t even meet with him in Apocrypha until Hermaeus Mora lets me, and he won’t let me until he’s taught me the third word of Bend Will. I suppose once he has that he can claim that I’m his new champion, which will set Miraak against me.” Learning the third word means potentially bringing harm to the Skaal. He doesn’t like this, but he’s also yet to come up with an alternative to that, and Mora is not easily bargained with.

“So learn the third word, face Miraak, get Miraak on side, tell Mora to go away?” Lucien surmises.

“Yeees. I’m not sure how the _going away_ bit is going to work. I can get in and out of Apocrypha by reading the black books, but what about Miraak?” He’s also not sure how the ‘get Miraak on side’ thing will work either given Erandur’s theories, but he must trust that his words will get through to Miraak eventually. There are still so many barriers to overcome, and he doesn’t have any solid answers. “I can’t see Mora willingly letting Miraak go no matter how lucrative a trade I offer. I need something that would… force his hand, essentially. I just don’t know what that is.”

There is nothing he can do except wander until he comes up with a better plan, or something that might help falls into his lap.

-

All told, Chrysanthe thinks he’s quite good at this adventuring thing by now. He needs only think back to his earliest days – panicking as he fended off wolves and bandits, the ordeal that was Bleak Falls Barrow, hiding behind Neloth through Ncharduk – to know he’s far more capable than he was.

Every so often however, the world will remind him that he’s not invincible. It would have to happen when Lucien isn’t with him too.

The place is Sunderstone Gorge, which looks like a regular cave-turned-bandits den from the outside, but turns out to be full of _very aggressive fire mages_ using the place to conduct their experiments. Given the abundance of both charred bodies and fire resistance potions he finds littered around the place, he guesses they’re testing ways to make their spells un-resistible. Obviously, that’s something he needs to put a stop to.

…Of course, this feels a lot less heroic when he’s crouched behind an upturned table, desperately trying to heal himself before the barrage of fireballs burns through his cover. There’s a lot of Shouting and things exploding, and he counts himself lucky to stagger back out of the cave victorious and with all of his limbs intact. He is however quite badly burned, and very tired, and nauseous from drinking too many potions, both the resistance and healing variety.

Then a dragon attacks, because of course it does. It’s a fire dragon, because of course it is.

So he fights the dragon, because his alternative is ducking back into Sunderstone where there might still be a few mages he missed waiting to finish him off, and it’s not like he can outrun a dragon either. ‘Fighting’ in this instance refers to using Ethereal Form to hold out until it just gods-damned lands already, hacking at it, withdrawing, frantically healing, repeating.

All told it ends up being one of his harder dragon fights not because this dovah is especially tough or cunning, just because he’s already so worn down. When he finally fells the thing he descends shakily to the floor for fear of passing out, slumps against the skeletal remains, and barely notices that the soul isn’t coming his way. He just needs to close his eyes for a moment…

“ **Dragonborn** ,“ is spoken with quite a bit more force than he’s used to, and he shudders back to wakefulness. His counterpart is looming over him, the dragon soul rushing about his form. Chrysanthe assumes he cuts a particularly pitiful figure, curled up against a skeleton as he is. Most of him is painted with blood, and the rest of his skin is burned angry pink rather than its usual gold. “You are injured. Where is your servant?”

He blinks uncomprehending, before his tired brain supplies that Miraak means Lucien. This elicits a breathless laugh that hurts his ribs more than he thinks it should. “Friend, Miraak, not servant.”

“Where is he?” Miraak asks again, sounding more urgent than Chrysanthe has heard him in a while. “Are you alone?”

Chry only gives him a wistful sort of smile. “What’s this, Miraak? You _don’t_ want me to die?”

“Obviously I do not want you to die,” Miraak snaps back, before smoothly amending: “Yet. If you can make smart remarks you are obviously feeling better. Can you heal yourself?”

“Mmn,” is as much as he can really formulate. His magicka has trickled back, so he calls on it again to mend some of the worst damage. He’ll be able to fix himself properly as soon as he can stomach another potion.

It is satisfying enough for Miraak, who leans back again, form already fading now the soul is absorbed. “Speak with me when you have the strength, Dragonborn.”

“Is that so you can tell me off at length?” Chry asks, but Miraak is already gone.

-

**You should not have risked yourself like that.**

Chrysanthe sighs. _It was so you could tell me off at length._

He gets a defensive sort of grumble in response, but tellingly Miraak does not deny the accusation. **Are you still injured? Your form is unharmed here.**

In telepathy he is in fact unharmed and robust as he always looks. In reality he’s laid up in bed still nursing some of his burns, though much better than he was. He is under strict orders by Lucien not to do anything strenuous for the next few days, which is partly why he’s contacted Miraak now, knowing the post-telepathy tiredness won’t matter. Of course, a much larger part is how perturbed Miraak had sounded after the dragon fight and still feels even now. _I’m fine, Miraak. I’m not used to you being worried about me._

A scoff. **I am not ‘worried’. I merely wanted assurance that you still lived.** Chrysanthe would call that worrying, but he keeps that to himself. Miraak still feels on-edge, pacing restlessly in front of him. He stays at a respectable distance - he hasn’t tried to grab Chrysanthe even once in this talk, perhaps because he senses Chry can take less aggravation than usual. **You are fortunate you did. Dov should never be underestimated, not even by you.**

_It was the den of fire mages that came before it that did most of the work on me._

**Ah,** Miraak realises, coming to a stop. **You were softened up before the real fight. I also almost met my end to this, before.**

He did, Chrysanthe remembers. In the end it was not dragons but a fellow dragon priest who felled Miraak – or almost did when Hermaeus Mora whisked him away. _This was to Vahlok?_

The mere mention of the name brings forth anger, though simmering rather than seething. **He sought me out after I held off hours of bombardment by Alduin’s minions. If it had been a fair fight I would have won, I assure you**. He looks at Chrysanthe pointedly. **Even if your recklessness was unintentional, you too will fall if you put yourself in that position again. I will not abide it.**

As though if he commanded it strongly enough he could will it so. Chry can’t help a wry smile, even as he points out the obvious hypocrisy here: _You’ve always been quite insistent on wanting me dead._

 **Not to some dovah in the middle of nowhere** , Miraak practically growls. That’s a weird way of looking at it, and evidently his confusion comes across. **Is this so strange a concept? You are closer to my equal than anyone has ever come. When you die, it should be by my hand at the summit of Apocrypha. Nowhere else.**

Chrysanthe knows enough by now to realise that, death threat though it might be, this is as close to affection as Miraak gets. He has the funny thought that wishing someone a worthy death might be the highest form of flattery in dov culture, and something their priests probably emulated. He does think that the dragon priests probably didn’t _do_ friendship and this contributes to why Miraak wields compliments like threats.

But bizarrely flattering though it might be, he doesn’t want to nor plan to die to Miraak. Something he would normally point out, but their arguments drain him and he’s already wearied. He opts to side-step the topic for now, though he hopes the lack of agreement, resignation or even fear at Miraak’s statement will tell the man he doesn’t condone the idea that one should kill the other.

He does also have another question that he’s been mulling over for the duration of his bedrest. _After that dragon fight, you shouted ‘Dragonborn’ to get my attention._

He’s pleasantly surprised when Miraak doesn’t pull the conversation back to Chrysanthe’s inevitable death, but instead moves along, giving a tingle of acknowledgement. **What of it?**

 _Why do you call me that and not by my name? I’ve thought about it, and I don’t remember you ever using it,_ Chry queries. He has a funny thought, then. _Don’t tell me you don’t actually know what it is._

 **Of course I know,** Miraak says, a little huffily at that. **Others call you _Chrysanthe_.**

It’s strange actually hearing his name spoken in Miraak’s voice, but stranger still is that it is accompanied not by the usual brand of possessiveness Chry expected, but a sharp dose of disdain. He actually feels a little wounded. _What was that for? Is my name offensive to you?_

**It does not suit you.**

He’s not sure whether he’s insulted, amused, or just plain confused. He’ll go for the latter. _I don’t really follow your line of reasoning._

Miraak seems annoyed, even moreso that Chrysanthe doesn’t even _disagree_ , but just plain _doesn’t understand._ **It is derived from the name of a golden flower - you would not find it growing anywhere near Skyrim. Whoever named you that wished you to be flower-like, delicate and beautiful. It is insulting that they had no other ambitions for you.**

He’s still baffled. _I think you’re reading into it too much. It’s only a name._

 **Names were very important in my time,** Miraak points out. **Priests and other significant mortals had them bestowed by the dov, usually after a trait they commanded you to embrace or impress upon the world around you.**

He can’t help but lean in, interested. Chrysanthe has history books to tell him what that period was like, but it was so long ago with so few surviving records that the accounts are either blandly uninformative, or based on more speculation than truth. Miraak hasn’t really spoken of his time in the priesthood before, and he’s keen to hear it from someone who was really there. _Such as?_

 **For some of the priests you have since brought second death to,** Miraak muses, **Hevnoraak means ‘brutality’, and Krosis is ‘sorrow’. You killed Zahkriisos as well, did you not? That is ‘blooded sword’.**

_Sensing a bit of a theme here._

Miraak waves a hand. **Dragons like names that inspire fear. You perhaps would not have warranted such, but you would have been called… Ahkrin or Qolor or similar. Not named after a pretty plant.** He eyes Chrysanthe carefully. **You were not named by a dovah but you were named poorly. So I will call you Dragonborn, not Chrysanthe.**

He ought to be more offended really, but there’s a certain amusement that Miraak takes such a strong stance on his behalf. He can live with being called Dragonborn he supposes. He’d quite like to know what those two words mean if Miraak considers them name-worthy traits, although the nonchalance suggests he hasn’t given this any significant thought. He has a more important question, though: _So what does your name mean?_

Miraak tips his head, as though trying to determine if Chrysanthe is genuinely interested, but he does tell him: **It means ‘allegiance-guide’. I inspired as much fear as the next priest, but great reverence as well because I could Shout as the dragons did**. Chry nods with fascination, feels with greater fascination, and receives something sort of satisfied in response. Paarthurnax did say dragons love talking, it makes sense that Miraak does too. **My followers clung on to my every word, but the words I spoke belonged to my masters, not to me. The name was intended as a reminder that I was a puppet, but when I turned against the dov I made it my own again.**

 _Do you not think there might be more to it?_ Chrysanthe asks. This might be stupid, but it’s odd to him that every other dragon priest was named something distinctly unfriendly and Miraak wasn’t. He’s an increasingly big believer in fate, embroiled in it as he is, so… _These things have a strange way of working out. What if you were always intended to be an ally and guide rather than a destructive force?_

 **To you, you mean?** Miraak murmurs. Normally any suggestion that he and Chrysanthe are not enemies is accompanied with a feeling of denial, for Miraak is still so certain that they will kill each other. Unfortunately that feeling is still there, but this time it’s tempered by a wistfulness that catches Chrysanthe by surprise - he hasn’t really felt this from Miraak before. **I wish it were so, but it is not.**

 _It could be,_ Chrysanthe insists. He knows this topic leads to contention but if he’s finally, maybe getting through to him, he has to say something. _You must have thought about it. We could be great together, we could accomplish anything._

 **Life is not so kind as to allow us both to live.** Normally when Chrysanthe pushes Miraak he pushes back, but this feels… different - it’s not an argument, it’s a statement, one that is forlorn and resigned, but absolute in its confidence. Miraak doesn’t believe him, he swiftly realises. It’s not that he thinks Chrysanthe is lying, it’s that he simply disagrees.

It hurts that this is still the case despite all of Chrysanthe’s efforts, but he tries not to let it show too much. He does at least challenge the notion: _According to who? Hermaeus Mora?_

Miraak only shakes his head. **According to fate.**

But why, _why?_ He knows that Miraak genuinely doesn’t want to kill him, so why won’t the man take more resolve against it? He has such a strong will in regards to everything else, why doesn’t he rage against this too? This has to be Mora’s influence, he thinks frantically. He can’t think of any other reason that Miraak would just _accept_ this. _‘Because fate said so’ is not an answer. You have to give me more than that, you have to-_

_There has to be-_

He’s slipping, he realises. He’s poured too much into those last few lines of conversation, a sharp tug on his magicka. Ordinarily he might be able to persist, but he already feels so frail. _I have to go,_ he bites out, hating that he must end things here. _I do not have the strength for this conversation but we will have it._

Miraak feels many things in response to this - the usual spike of denial at Chrysanthe leaving, the frustration at this topic being cut short, and something very wary - whether that’s at Chrysanthe’s unusually-stern declaration or an observation on his declining condition is impossible to tell. **The answer will not change,** he murmurs, not angry. Chry wishes he were angry. It would be easier to deal with than this. **I want to speak with you again. But the answer will not change.**

He hasn’t the strength to say anything more. Chrysanthe swallows silently, closes his eyes, and returns to Nirn, to his bed and his still-singed wounds. They do not compare to the great ache in his chest.

-

Once he’s licked his wounds he returns to adventuring, which is to say ‘trying to get stronger and also stumble across a solution to one of his many Hermaeus Mora related problems’. After one too many nights of brooding he opts to, for his own well-being, stop focusing so much on his last conversation with Miraak and start arming himself for the next one. He must find some way to prove to Miraak that they can overcome Mora together without self-sacrifice.

Lucien is a lot more insistent on tagging along after the Sunderstone incident, but he still wears out more than Chrysanthe does. It also does not escape Chry’s notice that he bounced back from being half burned to death in a way that most people would not. His healing is quite good by now, but there’s definitely more to it than that.

His wandering sees him run into the followers and meddlings of a few more daedric princes, most of which he carefully avoids. He ends up with the fragmented pieces of Azura’s Star and is faced with the choice of returning it to the priestess at the prince’s shrine, or to the disgraced wizard Neloth in Winterhold. He knows what giving it to the latter entails, familiar with enchanting and soul gems as he is – the star could become blackened, able to hold the souls of people as well as beasts. It’s a dark practice, binding mortal souls like that. Powerful, but dark.

He’s later ashamed to admit that in his bleakest moments, usually in the late-early hours when he just can’t sleep at all, he debates whether it would hold Miraak. If he could trap him on death Miraak would go to the Soul Cairn which is, technically, a freedom from Apocrypha. He might have an easier time freeing Miraak from there, the lack of a living body to inhabit would prove a challenge but maybe he could – maybe he could-

He stops himself. It’s madness. Azura drove the last person who sought to darken the star mad, and maybe she’s already marching him along the same path as punishment. So he firmly rejects the desperate, deluded ideas, and takes the star back to the solitary priestess waiting at the feet of Azura’s towering stone visage. Even if it feels a little like kowtowing to yet another daedric prince, defying her is even more perilous.

“You should carry it,” says the priestess once the star is mended. “Wield it in her name.”

Still faithful to Azura, even when the prince is no longer faithful to her. Azura is one of the ‘good’ daedra, but as far as Chry can tell she’s as callous as the rest. He pushes it firmly back into the priestess’ hands. “I’m already the unwilling champion of another prince, thanks.”

-

He does about the same with Meridia, prince of life and energy, hater of all things undead. Somewhat begrudgingly, he actually quite likes Meridia - she’s forceful and tends to demand things rather than request them, but he’s used to that from, well. But she’s very straight-forward to deal with, and less interested in displays of submission than the other princes he’s come across.

Mostly though, and this feels a little silly to admit out loud, but when he returns her beacon he suddenly finds himself floating miles and miles above her temple, surrounded by the brilliant night sky. He is in awe - this he assumes is the point of levitating him like this when she could have just spoken with him on the ground. Maybe she wanted to inspire some terror too but he doesn’t feel it, only amazement as he looks around. He can even see a dragon shrine right next to the temple and a dragon to go with it - one that hadn’t seen him yet since he approached in darkness, but the flash of brilliant light from the beacon must have stirred it. Unable to find the source of its upset he sees it circling the temple on a fruitless hunt. It’s so far below him though that it seems small and toy-like, and something about that makes him strangely giddy.

Meridia, taking the form of a glowing light that hurts to look directly at, gives him a task: “I have brought you here, mortal, to be my champion. You will enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler."

And normally Chrysanthe would bite back _No I won’t_ because very firmly telling daedric princes NO is the only way some of them will leave you alone. But he’s so far up he feels like a constellation, and it’s _wonderful_.

So, he agrees to at least help. Guides her light through the temple, undoes the work of a vicious necromancer that really, he would have slain anyway even if a daedra hadn’t asked him to. When he’s granted the magnificent sword Dawnbreaker at the end of it all, he’s almost tempted to keep it. But, he mustn’t.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not looking to become a daedra’s champion,” he says and sets the blade down in front of the beacon, even as Meridia tuts disdainfully at him. “Someone else will find this and wield it in your name, but it can’t be me.”

“Then I will find another worthy soul,” she says haughtily, but she does not bother him further.

-

He finds himself in Haemar’s shame, before the statue of Clavicus Vile. He’s already dealt far too much with this daedra when he should have just walked away, but Barbas is affable as daedric dogs go and seems more interested in reigning Clavicus Vile in than bringing more harm. When the prince initially offers to let Chrysanthe keep the Rueful Axe, but only if he kills Barbas with it, it seems like a no-brainer to refuse.

“Oh, but are you sure?” Clavicus says sweetly. “It’s a very, _very_ powerful axe. You look like a man who could make good use of it. Just think, if it can slay Barbas, what else could it do?”

_Oh._

Oh no. No, he can’t. There are so many reasons not to - Clavicus is clearly the wickeder party here, and shouldn’t be trusted. Barbas asked for his help. Barbas helped him, too. Barbas looks like those fluffy war dogs he’s seen in Markarth, and the one he found on the road near Solitude and took back to Lod in Falkreath to look after.

And yet – and yet.

Something in his eyes must do the speaking for him, for Barbas backs up hastily, “N-now wait a second! The axe isn’t the only item Clavicus has. Once we’re reunited you could have his masque!”

But he doesn’t need a masque.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers.

Later, when he’s walking back through Falkreath to pick Lucien up from the tavern, a guard sees the heavy weapon slung across his back and remarks: "'Tis a wicked axe you wield there, friend. That blade looks sharp enough to cut through a god."

“Mmn,” Chrysanthe replies quietly.

_That’s my hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> From Miraak’s conversations:  
>  _Ahkrin_ \- ‘courage’, because Chrysanthe is quite brave, both in general and because he keeps poking Miraak despite everything.  
>  _Qolor_ \- ‘cunning’ because in my head Miraak was grudgingly impressed when Chrysanthe led the dragon he sent to Tel Mithryn so someone stronger than him could help kill it.
> 
> -
> 
> I actually did get attacked by a dragon outside Sunderstone Gorge! A named dragon at that, Vuljotnaak, though evidently I missed Alduin waking them up. The mages flinging fireballs in Sunderstone definitely gave me more trouble than the dragon did.
> 
> Chrysanthe’s theories about trapping Miraak in Azura’s Star are in fact dead wrong, because dragons can’t be trapped by soul gems. Going by what happens in-game when you kill Miraak, Chry would automatically absorb his spirit (plus all the dragon souls he collected) and if he didn’t it would just… fly away, I guess. Presumably this happened with all the Dragonborn between Miraak and the LDB who didn’t have anyone around to absorb them.
> 
> Not-so-fun fact: Meeko was originally in this story because who doesn’t love cute dog companions but 1) I consistently kept forgetting to write him into scenes, 2) he didn’t add any lovableness that Lucien doesn’t already and 3) I figured Chry wouldn’t really be able to look at him again and not see Barbas. Also in-game accidentally catching Meeko in a spell or Shout is the saddest thing ever so I stopped taking him with me. I’ll destroy video game humans all day but not video game doggos!
> 
> -
> 
> UPDATE: I got some gosh darn fanart! Thank you to RossFaul for this beautiful picture of handholding: https://www.deviantart.com/rossfaul/art/Chysanthe-and-miraak-843642118?ga_submit_new=10%3A1590726880


	11. Chapter 11

“So the plan is to threaten Hermaeus Mora with an axe?” Lucien summarises.

It sounds a bit silly when put like that, but- “It’s all I’ve got. I was really hoping we’d come across something else relating to… how to break someone out of daedric imprisonment,” he gestures vaguely, “But I don’t have anything. So yes, I’m going to go to Apocrypha, talk Miraak around, and threaten Mora with the Rueful Axe. That’s it. That’s my plan.”

Lucien rubs his chin. “Well it’s better than the nothing we had before. Back to Solstheim, then?”

-

On the ship over, he contacts Miraak.

It has been a longer gap than he might have normally allowed, but between recovery from his injuries at Sunderstone and traipsing all over the place at the behest of _other_ daedric princes, he hasn’t been able to speak. That and he didn’t want to without having something that he might wield in an argument against his counterpart. He still doesn’t have anything, not really, he has his determination and his compassion, and he hopes these will see him through.

The man appears before him as usual, in that prowling sort of stance that suggests he could pounce at any minute. He speaks before Chrysanthe has a chance to: **You are finally ready to speak with me?**

He feels quite annoyed, probably because Chrysanthe kept him waiting so long. He hasn’t slain any dragons recently either, so Miraak has been without any contact. Chrysanthe has plenty of reasons and justifications for all this, but rather than fan the flames he keeps his thoughts calm and says _I am here now._

 **You are here,** Miraak repeats, but does lose some of the bitter edge to his voice. In its absence, a hungriness creeps in. **I want to touch.**

Chrysanthe does debate refusing him, since touching brings their communication to a close all the faster and he has much to say. Miraak picks up on his hesitance, retorts with his own spike of insistence, that starving and single-minded need. Eventually Chry relents, not so much because Miraak is overpowering his thoughts (although it’s not for a lack of trying) but rather because it will be easier to get through to the other Dragonborn if he’s not so intently focused on something that has been denied to him.

He did also take some magicka-reinforcing potions before all this, expecting that this talk would be a taxing one.

So he holds up his hand and Miraak closes the gap between them at once, pressing their palms together. He seems to brute force his way through the barriers between them with more ease than Chry ever has. There’s a shudder of something two parts victory and one part relief, though it’s chased up by annoyance when he immediately tries to intertwine their fingers, and can’t. **Why won’t it - I have done this before. Are you keeping me away?**

 _Not deliberately._ Chrysanthe suspects the reason Miraak could the first time they spoke was because he Chry was so caught off-guard by his sudden appearance, so defenceless against his will. Now there’s more of a shield between them, even if it’s mostly subconscious. He hasn’t been able to link their fingers either when he’s tried. It’s not something he’s going to spend more time debating when he has other things to discuss: _I would like to continue what we spoke of last time._

There’s a flash of wariness. **About us being enemies?**

_You’d still call us that, after all this?_

**You have made it… complex,** Miraak admits. **But we are enemies. Fate decrees it so.**

 _Why?_ Chrysanthe asks in immeasurable frustration. _You keep saying that, but it’s only inevitable if you go along with it without argument!_

 **There is no resisting it. You of all people should know this, as connected by fate as we are,** the man points out. He has some of his own frustration in response to Chrysanthe, the first flickering of anger, but mostly it’s just this absolute, unshakable certainty. **As surely as I know we are bound together, I know how this story ends. You will come to Apocrypha. I will kill you for my freedom, or I will die trying.**

 _I don’t believe that,_ he says firmly. _There are other ways to free you._

That anger surges then, suddenly sparked into something hot. **Do you think I haven’t looked into this already? Do you think I have sat idle while you ran all over Skyrim? Hermaeus Mora has blocked off all paths to me. The All-Maker Stones would take years to tap into again, and you demonstrated how easily the progress was undone.**

Chrysanthe finds himself taken aback. As an absolute last resort, returning to Miraak’s original plan to build shrines around the Stones was at least an option. _The dragon souls?_

A bitter laugh. **Perhaps if you gave me a hundred, and Mora needs only learn of that plan to take them from me as well. I am certain in fact that he already knows of it, and only permits me to keep the souls so I have a false sense of hope.** Miraak shakes his head, flooded with anger and upset and resignation. **No, the only way I can leave this place is with the surge of power absorbing you would grant me. I have scoured Apocrypha for alternatives, I assure you.**

He is reminded of what the Psijic said, that fate was unaltered by him learning telepathy. As though the outcome hadn’t changed at all.

No, he can’t accept it. He won’t. _Then we’ll face Mora together! With both of us-_

 **There is no both of us!** is snarled back. **I am powerless in Apocrypha. Powerless! All that I have, Mora can take from me in an instant! He can take my magic, he can take my Voice! You-** he stops himself, seething, breathless. _Hurt_. **You could not possibly comprehend. You have seen mere glimpses of Hermaeus Mora. You have yet to understand that whatever he wills, is so.**

And Chrysanthe… knows that’s true, the first part anyway. Miraak has been reduced to almost nothing before him once. When he thinks about that one time in Apocrypha, in the darkness, he’d tried tricking Mora into dangling him in front of Miraak so they could speak. What Mora had actually done was dangle Miraak in front of him. Of course Hermaeus Mora is powerful, and never moreso than when he sits in his own kingdom, but Miraak’s view is almost… like Mora is so infallible that only something as powerful as fate can overcome him, and that fate has specifically designated that Miraak needs to kill Chrysanthe.

Mora proclaims himself prince of fate, doesn’t he?

Chrysanthe doesn’t think Mora controls fate though, no-one and nothing does. He has the ability to read it, predict it, maybe even nudge it - but not control it. But if he whispers to Miraak that something _must be so_ and Miraak doesn’t have the power to refuse that, that’s as good as controlling destiny isn’t it?

The more he thinks about it, the more he realises that must be it. It must be Hermaeus Mora that has decreed this, not fate, because he wants them to fight. Because either Chrysanthe will kill Miraak - having no choice in the matter but to defend himself - and take his place as Mora’s unwilling champion… or because Miraak will kill him. And then escape, but Chrysanthe thinks that Miraak will be so twisted in Mora’s schemes by that point that even leaving Apocrypha will not free him, not truly.

He’s not sure how much of this frantic theorising makes it through their telepathic link to Miraak. Not much he suspects, it’s too jumbled to convey properly, and he doesn’t think Miraak would hear it anyway. In terms of their argument, convincing Miraak that they are better standing together than against each other, he’s hit a brick wall.

…He remembers Erandur’s advice on letting Miraak feel his compassion. Whether Mara miraculously intervenes is anyone’s guess but it’s all he has, so rather than keep arguing he leans in, and he lets Miraak _feel_. Hold back, Quaranir always warned. Make yourself a tidal wave and all you will do is drown. But he must be a tidal wave to overcome the walls that Miraak has built up, so he does not hold back.

Compassion, empathy, and devotion: _I don’t want to fight you._

He can feel Miraak in return, the surface anger and pride, the resigned certainty that this is how it must be. Underneath that the chasm he has glimpsed only once before of terrible, terrible loneliness, like a groove in his soul that has been worn into an abyss by four thousand years of subjugation. He sees, so clearly, that anyone else would have been utterly destroyed by now, gone insane long before it could get to this point, but by virtue of his dragon blood and his will Miraak is still in there, trapped in that darkness. Miraak again tries to close that chasm to him, doesn’t want anyone to see how deeply scarred he is, but Chrysanthe won’t let him. Struggling, Miraak bites back: **There is no choice. You think I would choose this, if there were?**

He does not argue, but instead reiterates what he knows to be true: _I want to save you._

Miraak gives a sharp inhale, so used to their tentative relationship that he doesn’t know how to react when it is suddenly not tentative at all. **The only one who will save me is me. Dragonborn-**

He’s cut off when Chrysanthe’s fingers slip between his and grasp, _interlinked_ , a touch permitted by the wondrous and frightening depths of their connection. Miraak shudders in response but he can’t resist that which he wants so badly, the human contact that reminds him that someone out there cares about him. And oh, how Chrysanthe cares. How much time and effort and patience he’s put into this. He couldn’t possibly extract himself from it all now. _I will save you._

Miraak won’t believe him, but he won’t deny him either. He too curls his fingers tightly around Chrysanthe’s, unwilling to let go, but it doesn’t matter this time because Chry isn’t willing to let him go either. Even as their contact-which-should-not-be pulls at his magicka he sinks further into it, and so does Miraak, and they drag each other under the waves. It’s dark, down here. Miraak’s need for him is not a pure or innocent feeling - it’s as though Miraak desires him so badly he would devour Chrysanthe, because he knows of no other act that would convey the depth of his want. But he won’t, because Chrysanthe won’t let him. He’s not here to be devoured by that abyss, he’s here to pull Miraak out of it.

_I will save you. I will come to Apocrypha and I will save you._

Then his magicka runs out and he knows that staying here any longer will start to take its toll on his physical health next, which he can’t let happen if he’s going to march on Apocrypha. So he frees himself - Miraak tries to stop him with a noise more desperate than angry, tries to keep him here, but Chrysanthe wrenches his hand loose. Before Miraak can grab him again, he is gone.

-And back on the ship, with his right hand curled up into such a tight fist that he cramps up his entire arm when he releases it.

-

Teldryn hears him coming into Severin Manor this time and is therefore in a more presentable state when he greets him. “Long time no see, Boss.”

“It has been a long time,” he says a little ruefully. “I’m going to talk to the Skaal, do you want to come with? Lucien is coming too.”

“Of course.” Teldryn looks him up and down then. Chrysanthe has come a long way indeed, evidenced in the carefully-polished Blades armour, the sword at his hip and the wickedly glinting wolf-headed axe strapped to his back. “You‘re ready then?”

No. He never has been and never will be. But still- “Close enough.”

-

He speaks with Miraak again sooner than expected. From Raven Rock he heads north so Lucien can check everything is fine at Dumzbthar (it is) and then the three of them travel to the east of the island. As they pass near Saering’s Watch, they end up tangled in a fight involving a bunch of draugr and a few frost trolls before a dragon swoops into the mix on top of that. Chrysanthe mostly weaves between cover while the draugr plink at the dragon with arrows and get decimated by frost breath in return, weeds out the competition and by the time he’s the only one left fighting the dragon it’s nearly dead anyway. He gives a sharp inhale when the soul doesn’t go to him, and Miraak’s translucent form appears.

The man pauses, looks around. “Familiar. You are in Solstheim again,” he rumbles lowly. “So you come to end it. No wonder you made such declarations when we spoke.”

Of course, for all his promises to come to Apocrypha in their last telepathic talk, Chrysanthe neglected to mention he was in fact on a ship heading over to the island. He wishes he could get a better read on Miraak’s reactions - the telepathy has spoiled him in that regard - but between the obscuring mask and Miraak keeping his own body language constrained where it is normally expressive, there’s only neutrality. “It isn’t an _end_ , Miraak. Remember what I said.”

The man shrugs listlessly. “I have given it plenty of thought. This can end no other way.”

“That’s just what Hermaeus Mora wants you to think. He doesn’t control you. He doesn’t own you.”

“For now he does.” Miraak gazes at Chrysanthe quietly, sadly perhaps, but he can’t truly tell. “I have been owned for too long. I must be free, and no-one will stand in the way of that. Not even you.”

Then he’s gone, as though carried away on the winds with the rest of the dragon soul. Chrysanthe exhales slowly, forcing calm upon his racing pulse and shaking fingers. He is and will continue to be certain that Miraak is wrong, but that doesn’t lessen his nerves when confronted about it.

“Chrysanthe?” Lucien asks nervously from behind him. “That sounded quite like he still plans to kill you.”

Teldryn too shuffles, looking unsettled. “You’re not deliberately planning to lose to him or anything, are you?”

He sets his lips in a thin line. “No, that isn’t the plan. There’s - it’s as though-” he stops, takes a breath and tries again: “I have reached an impasse with words. I still plan to convince him with my actions.”

“You know what you’re doing,” Lucien answers, but he’s unsure, trying to convince himself as much as anything. Teldryn as well. That’s fine, Chrysanthe doesn’t need them to believe in him. He just needs to believe in himself.

-

He does not share his plans to free Miraak with the Skaal, and has a quick word with Lucien and Teldryn to also keep that under wraps. The Skaal are descended from dragon worshippers, for whom Miraak was the ultimate traitor. They might not actively worship dragons anymore, but the idea of Miraak as an unredeemable villain is deeply embedded in their lore. The fact that Miraak targeted their sacred All-Maker Stones and enthralled their people - some of whom still toil at the Tree Stone - does not help. He suspects any mention that he is trying to aid their enemy would be met with accusation of being under Miraak’s mind-controlling influence.

So when he reaches the Skaal village, is greeted with surprise and tentative hope by Frea, and she asks if he has come to defeat Miraak he says _yes_ , because… well, he is going to defeat Miraak, sort of, but he doesn’t tell her that he makes no plans to _kill_ him.

This admittedly makes him feel a little guilty when she gives him a relieved smile. “I’m so glad. Our people are still at the Tree Stone. We tried everything, but nothing will bring them back to us.” She shuffles, tentative. “…Have you visited the Tree Stone yet? Did you pass it on the way here?”

He shakes his head. “No, I went more north than that. Why?”

She bites her lip. “You should probably see it. I will take you.”

-

It’s a… temple.

…Well, it _is_ a temple, as in Miraak’s temple sits underneath the Tree Stone, which Chrysanthe has always been certain was not mere coincidence. But he knows the temple only as a vast underground vault; anything topside was razed by dragons, deliberately forsaken by the dragon cult and then finally buried by the ash of the volcanic eruption. When Chrysanthe was last here - as in, swept up in Miraak’s nocturnal mind control to mindlessly aid in its construction - there was merely a shrine around the Tree Stone. Larger and more advanced than the shines around the other Stones, not something he could Shout down with his Voice, but still, it was a shrine.

Now it’s more like a cathedral, great arches of stone and ornate pillars, like fingers grasping at the sky. The scope of it has reached such that wooden scaffolding has been constructed around parts of it, and he can see sleepwalking sculptors up there as well as on the ground, completely unruffled by the height as a normal worker would be. He can hear the mantra still being mumbled even from here. _Here in his shrine - that they have forgotten - here do we toil - that we might remember-_

Chrysanthe shivers. He will forgive Miraak for this, when it is all over, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thoroughly disturbed by it.

“I didn’t realise he was still building it,” he says softly from where he and Frea spy - not too close, so as not to draw the attention of the masked cultists he can see overseeing the slaves. “He hasn’t made any attempt to reclaim the other Stones yet and I thought he needed all of them to gain any true power.”

“I think he is constructing it for his glorious return,” Frea says with a heavy dose of disdain. “He has mostly taken bandits as his slaves but look, there are still Skaal in there. They still live so he must let them eat and drink, but I fear for when he grows short on patience and works them to death.”

Chrysanthe worries for that too. He’s surprised Miraak hasn’t already lost patience, since it’s been… how long, now? He’s not even sure. “How long have they been like this - six, seven months? That’s when I first came here.”

“Longer. By the time you arrived on Solstheim they had already been lost to us for - a while,” Frea ponders. “It was… Sun’s Height, half into the season if I recall. So almost a year, now.”

Something in Chrysanthe’s mind goes _wait a minute._

“Sun’s Height?” he says, “Are you sure?

“Miraak seized the minds of almost all of Solstheim in one swoop. It is a difficult event to forget,” she points out. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s – nothing.” Oh it’s _something_ , but he isn’t sure if he’s correct and more importantly, he isn’t sure if he should tell her. “I can hardly believe it’s been so long, that’s all.”

-

Fortunately for him Frea assumes his intense expression and heavy silence on the walk back is due to seeing the temple so advanced, or that he is perhaps formulating his revenge against Miraak. He is certainly thinking of Miraak, but not in a way she could fathom.

Sun’s Height. He has to do some thinking, re-tracing his steps. The first time he arrived in Solstheim was in the month of Evening Star. That was some time after he was attacked by Miraak’s cultists, which happened right after he met the Greybeards for the first time, which was… Frostfall? And he was adventuring for a few months, maybe longer, before the whole Dragonborn thing kicked off. That would make the month where he actually woke up, by his count, Sun’s Height. About mid way through.

He hisses an exhale through his teeth. It could just be coincidence.

But it isn’t. He knows it isn’t.

It even crossed his mind when he first came to Raven Rock and started asking around about Miraak – everyone felt as though they’d heard the name but couldn’t place where, the mild confusion associated with magic muddling the thoughts. He felt that way too before he’d ever set foot on the island. Like he knew the name, the voice. Or should he say, the Voice.

He’s used the Bend Will Shout to break Miraak’s hold on other people. What if Miraak’s original Shout broke someone else’s hold on _him?_

How, he doesn’t know. Miraak’s power is inherently tied and limited to Solstheim, it never affected anyone in mainland Skyrim. Yet they are both Dragonborn where no two Dragonborn have ever existed in tandem before, and he’s mused before that this connects them in some unfathomable way – even across the waves, the mountains, the tunnels of that dark little cave he first found himself in. And this is why the other has always felt so familiar, the whole reason Chry has been so invested in getting to know him more. When Miraak Shouted, Chrysanthe _heard_.

“Oh,” he says out loud as he comes to a realisation that, in retrospect, should have been quite obvious.

His current company - Lucien and Teldryn, eating lunch - both pause and look at him. “What is it boss?” the latter asks.

He glances around the village. None of the Skaal are currently sitting with them but still, this isn’t the right place to discuss his ideas freely. “…Just a thought,” he says quietly, and returns to eating. He gets more confused looks but when he doesn’t elaborate, they shrug it off as one of his enigmatic moments and leave him in peace with his thoughts.

Those thoughts are mostly _If he can free me, I can free him._

-

He needs the third word of the Shout, and he needs to face Miraak in the flesh, which also can’t happen until he has the word. So he must trade the secrets of the Skaal to Hermaeus Mora.

After much deliberation Chrysanthe decides to be upfront about the trade to elder Storn, and is surprised when the man agrees to acquiesce to Mora’s demands. “I think he will bring harm to you,” he warns Storn, because he can’t _not_ in good conscience, even though he does need Storn to do this for him.

“I think you are right,” Storn agrees with far more calm than Chry would have in his position. “But this is the only means by which you can face our great enemy. I know when to guard secrets and when to give them up, and now is the time to give them up.”

So Chrysanthe hands him the black book to read, reluctant even as he is resigned that Hermaeus Mora will hurt Storn.

Hermaeus Mora does hurt Storn, and more besides. It is not a kind death.

Hermaeus Mora purrs: "Dragonborn, you have delivered me the gift I requested. In return, I keep my promise, as befits a Prince of Oblivion: I give you the Word of Power that you need to challenge Miraak.” That eldritch pupil rakes over him with a sinister sort of fondness. “You will be either a worthy opponent or his successor, as the tides of fate decree."

 _Do they now._ But Mora cannot read his thoughts, and Chrysanthe will not arm him with the knowledge of what he truly thinks. So he is silent.

Frea clings to the lifeless body of her father, furious tears wetting her cheeks, and whispers: “Go. My father sacrificed himself so that you could destroy Miraak and lift his master's shadow from the land. Go, then. Kill Miraak. Do not fail."

As the other Skaal murmur their grievances and condolences to the fallen shaman and his successor, Chrysanthe retrieves the book and leaves, and he is silent.

-

He burns through one of his kept dragon souls to master the third word of Bend Will: **DOV** , for it is the word that allows one to control dragons. He doesn’t relish the thought of using it but he knows Miraak has a dragon under his command, and if they do end up fighting he can at least take away one weapon. Really though, he has another use in mind for it.

Maybe though, maybe he won’t have to. Maybe he can get through before it comes to that. He closes his eyes, and tries one last time.

-

He opens his eyes and he is in the dark void through which he and Miraak speak, where nothing and no-one exists but the both of them. Miraak isn’t here.

That actually shocks him a little. Miraak has always been there, it hadn’t occurred to Chrysanthe that he could elect not to show up. Is that how it is, then? Is Miraak so far past words that he won’t even deign to speak with Chrysanthe anymore?

He clenches his fists and calls out: _Miraak!_

Silence.

Something in him stirs angrily. He won’t be ignored now, not after everything he’s done. Narrowing his eyes, he calls on that memory that still stays with him even now, even when he’s spoken with Miraak a dozen times since. The slithering darkness beaten back by his magelight, the sense of being so very alone and at the same time so closely scrutinised. Before him, a wall of dark not-metal twisted into eldritch filigree. He puts a hand to it, slides his fingers blindly over the complex shapes in search of a break in the cool material, the feel of warm fingertips instead, but he finds nothing.

There will be something. This was the first setting that connected them mentally, a memory that forged something so powerful they broke every rule about telepathy. Before then it was the first time they connected physically too. He knows that Miraak can’t just ignore this.

He waits, and waits, and every time his thoughts wander to _is this it, then? Is this how it ends?_ he stamps down on them. _This is not how it ends._

Then a deep and resounding echo: **You are making this harder for both of us.**

He gasps, all of the tightly wound tension he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge releasing all at once. On the other side of the wall, a broad-shouldered silhouette and the distinct glint of old gold. All he can think is _You’re here, you’re finally here._ And then: _Put your hand to the wall? Let me feel your fingers._

He knows that Miraak wants this, but it’s a muted sort of want. He’s deliberately shielding his thoughts from where Chrysanthe can read them, putting a distance between them. He’d wager that’s why Miraak is staying on the other side of the wall rather than breaking it down as he always has before. **I should not,** he murmurs roughly.

Chry just shakes his head. _You want to, I know you do. This is the last time we will touch before I come to Apocrypha._

 **You can be very underhanded for someone with noble intentions,** Miraak mutters. But he can’t keep away, no more than Chrysanthe could keep away from Miraak despite his hostilities. He puts his hand to the wall and their fingers meet in one of the gaps in the scrollwork and press together. It’s as electric as it was the first time, as has been every time since. He still shivers at the sensation, and at the spike of desire that accompanies it despite Miraak’s intentions to keep himself more tethered than usual. Chry doesn’t want him to be tethered, though.

 _The first time we did this,_ he whispers through the wall, _Do you remember what I said to you?_

 **‘There must be a way that this can end without one of us dying to the other’,** Miraak quotes faithfully, but wearily.

_I still believe that’s true._

A sigh. **We have spoken of this enough.**

He bites on his lip, silenced. Would that he could Shout through their telepathic link, but he can’t; the Voice is a very physical thing, it comes from his chest and not from his mind. Here, where he doesn’t really have a corporeal form, he can’t draw on the breath he would need to make the _Thu’um_ take shape. If he could he might try his theory right now, but no - he must be facing Miraak in person for this to work.

So instead he calls on that empathy of his to strengthen their connection. Miraak resists, momentarily, because if he receives much he must give much in return, but then he gives. Anger upset resignation tiredness regret loss hunger warmth _desire_. As the mental wall falls so too does the physical one, crumbling like ash, and Chry steps forward - but Miraak does not backpedal like Chrysanthe did back then, never one to shy away. He steps in too and they meet, would bump into each other if not for the invisible barrier between them, if not for them being a plane of Oblivion apart. Their hands though, they can touch. Miraak’s fingers grasp with his; he grasps right back.

Then a lull as neither can hold any more than they already are, and neither can say more than they already have. They simply stand, staring at each other as though both hypnotised. It is with great effort that Chrysanthe manages to drag his entranced gaze away to and to their joined hands. It’s always their hands - his right to Miraak’s left - that touch, because that’s how they first touched in Apocrypha, and that’s the strongest thing that binds them. Hermaeus Mora thought he was playing them against each other when he allowed them to meet, that it would cement them as enemies, but all he did was give Chrysanthe the tool to always reach Miraak no matter what lies between them.

It’s always their hands, but-

He looks back at the other Dragonborn’s face, receiving a note of questioning in return, but no words. Chry’s gaze flicks down Miraak’s mask to where his mouth would be, up to his eyes, back to his mouth. Then he leans in slowly enough that Miraak might draw away if he wished to. Feels that he does not wish to. So he closes the gap between them and gently places his lips to the carved visage.

Cool, smooth metal against his mouth, really there, really touching. Miraak is wordless, breathless, caught between heated reciprocation and ragged denial because he can’t, _can’t allow this, sentimental, weak_ \- those are Miraak’s thoughts and not his, he realises, so entwined with his own he can’t keep their voices separate. But he also hears thoughts like _more_ and _the only one_ and he thinks those are Miraak’s too, aren’t they? Are they?

His kiss is chaste but lingering. When he pulls back Miraak leans in, chasing, but Chrysanthe has to go. He slips his fingers free of Miraak’s before the man can notice and do anything about it. He whispers, breath misting against the metal of the golden mask: _I will see you soon._

He slips away.

-

It’s late afternoon by the time he takes the black book to Miraak’s temple. His choice in location is deliberate; it’s pure speculation, but since it’s where Hermaeus Mora first took Miraak to Oblivion, he wonders if it might make it easier to return Miraak again, or something.

He would take it down to the very depths of the temple but it’s possible - probable - that there will be more cultists down there, and he’d rather not slaughter his way through them. He does unfortunately have to take out the few that are posted surface-side to keep an eye on the mindless temple workers, for they attack him on sight. Hoping none more come up to investigate, he tasks Teldryn and Lucien with keeping any visitors at bay. He divests himself of everything non-essential that weighs him down, giving the important things to Lucien and the shiny things to Teldryn. And then he opens his black book, and reads.

_The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of thought. The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First-_

-

He is in Apocrypha, as familiar as it is alien. It smells of musty parchment and faded, acrid ink. Pools of viscous water churn and shape into boneless limbs that lash out at him, and drifting seekers impede his progress – but he is not constantly on the brink of defeat as he has been before.

He finds it as much of a twisting maze as ever. Corridors stretch or shrink while he walks down them. He traverses halls, finds dead ends, doubles back and emerges somewhere completely different. He passes through it all with steady patience; Hermaeus Mora might reshape the world around him for his own amusement, but he’ll let Chrysanthe reach where he’s trying to go eventually.

His journey ends at a vast balcony that looks out onto the sprawl of Apocrypha, and a towering structure of stacked paper and wrought iron that stretches up into the green, green sky. Chrysanthe avoids looking at Apocrypha’s sky when he can but he does so now; among the nauseatingly swirling clouds are dark patches, like jagged splashes of ink, from which tentacles (Mora’s tentacles?) descend to lazily sway and survey the kingdom before them. But he can see something else too, the all too familiar silhouette of a swooping dragon… no, two dragons?

 _Three_ dragons. For just as Chrysanthe worries on whether he can Shout down two dovah at the same time, a third swoops rather more close to him with a piercing roar. It is not only a dragon but _the_ dragon, the sleek and serpentine creature he once saw Miraak ride away on, back when they first met. It lands, shaking the foundations as it does so, and eyes him with a glittering gaze. Then, against his expectations, it opens its mouth not to blast him with frost breath, but to speak:

“ _Laat Dovahkiin_ ,” it greets him, “I am Sahrotaar, servant of Miraak. I am ordered to carry you to the tower, will you come peacefully?”

“I suppose,” he says unsurely. He was expecting to fight a dragon, not be ferried by one. “You’re not going to attack me?”

The dovah shakes its head. “My master decrees that you should die by his hand alone.”

He sighs. It’s probably not worth debating this whole dying business with a mind-controlled dragon. “Fine, but only if I can arrive there uninjured.”

Sahrotaar lowers its head so that he might climb onto it. He can feel the tension in the scales underneath - it’s a position of great vulnerability, and not one he thinks this dragon particularly likes being in for anyone aside from Miraak - though that doesn’t really compare to his own tension as he settles between the head-fins and looks fruitlessly for something to hold on to.

When the creature takes off the best way to sum up Chrysanthe’s thoughts is _oh my gods_ and a lot of curse words he’s too polite to say out loud. He can but hold on for dear life, well aware that he’s not in control at all. Should he have Shouted at the dragon? Maybe he should have done but it seemed unnecessary when it was offering him a ride anyway. Well it _said_ it was, it occurs to him now when he’s well above the ground that if it chucked him off mid-flight that would certainly win the day for Miraak. But he does believe that Miraak wants to see him in person and not as a splatter at the bottom of Apocrypha.

It’s not a long flight; Sahrotaar makes no diversions, carrying him in determined silence to the finish line. There is a certain… gravitas to it all, as though he really were being escorted to his inescapable doom. He swallows and pushes that sensation aside; he isn’t going to die here, and neither is Miraak. Not if his plan works anyway. If it doesn’t… he’s not sure what he’ll do if it doesn’t.

Sahrotaar carries him to the top of the tower, above which sits one of those great black sky wounds. This close he can see a hundred eldritch eyes blinking within it, the abyss that stares back; he tears his gaze away, overcome with the notion that if he looks too long he’ll somehow fall upwards and into it. Rather he stares resolutely at the platform on which Sahrotaar lands, and at the figure standing there. Dark robes stitched with gold. Elaborately carved mask shaped like one of Mora’s seekers. _Miraak_ there, in the flesh, awaiting him calmly. He wonders if Miraak regards him the same way too, with his heart thumping against his ribcage like it’s trying to get out of its own prison. Or does it beat steady and slow, for why be nervous over something inevitable?

“Leave us, Sahrotaar. Do nothing more unless I command it,” Miraak calls out once Chrysanthe has disembarked the serpentine dragon. At once the dovah takes flight again, the flap of its wings scattering the loose papers of this place, stirring at Chrysanthe’s hair and Miraak’s robes. There are two more dragons that Chrysanthe hasn’t seen before, presumably also servants, circling the skies above the tower, but Miraak does not acknowledge them and they do not interfere.

As Sahrotaar joins them Miraak steps in, looks Chry up and down, and breathes out. “At last. How long I have waited for you.”

Chrysanthe feels like he’s been waiting an age for this too. “Miraak,” he says, and it emerges a soft and coaxing thing, “Don’t fight me. Join with me, and we’ll leave this place together.”

But he can tell that the plea merely washes over Miraak. He’s steeled himself, and this time Chrysanthe does not have a tidal wave of sentiment that he can impress upon the other man to force him to acknowledge this thing between them. The man keeps his words vague, unable to discuss his final escape plans out loud with Hermaeus Mora watching and listening to them so intently. “I cannot simply ‘leave’. You know this.”

Chrysanthe desperately wants to close the gap between them, and he doesn’t need telepathy to know that Miraak wants the same. He can see that stance he’s taken so many times before in their talks, as though he wants nothing more than to surge forwards and snatch Chrysanthe up. The distance enforced by their telepathy has always stood in the way before; now it is a different kind of barrier that keeps them apart. It is the final one that Chrysanthe must break.

He would step in now, but he has the sneaking suspicion Miraak would embrace him and then stab him mid way through, under some notion he was giving Chrysanthe a quick, clean death. So he stays at a distance, hands clenched at his sides, trying to keep his breathing as steady as he can. “You can. _We_ can. Please.”

Miraak only shakes his head. “It is my fate to kill you,” he returns steadily, but there’s a ragged edge to it too. “I do not do so gladly. Come, lay down your life for me, and I will make it as quick as I can.”

Chrysanthe smiles sadly, shakes his head. Miraak bows his silently, tension playing across his shoulders, but he reaches to his hip for a blade of dark and dripping green to match Apocrypha. “ **MUL QAH DIIV** ,” tips from his lips and the words take shape around him into ghostlike armour, translucent dragon horns sat like a crown upon his brow. It’s beautiful but deadly, the marker that this is really it, that there is no more negotiating.

So Chrysanthe draws his own stalhrim sword in response - he carries the Rueful Axe too but that’s not to use on Miraak, so he keeps that strapped to his back. He’s not really intending to use the sword on Miraak either outside of defending himself, though - he has a much better weapon at his disposal.

Miraak may not hear his words but he will hear his Voice.

He takes a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a slight change from the canonical confrontation with Miraak, where Sahrotaar tries to kill you and you use Bend Will to turn him into an ally. Which didn’t make much sense to me because I thought the whole point was that Miraak was gunning to fight you in Apocrypha, why would he keep you away? It’s not like you could reach the tower without a handy dragon to fly on. I guess the implication is that no matter where the LDB dies Miraak can absorb their soul (as he does when he steals your dragon souls) so he just wants you dead, plain and simple. In this story however Miraak specifically wanted to be the one to kill Chrysanthe, so he sends Sahrotaar to help rather than hinder Chrysanthe’s progress.
> 
> Also: ooh it's happening folkssss.


	12. Chapter 12

“ **GOL HAH DOV!** ”

Miraak reels back at once, caught mid step as he was towards Chrysanthe. But then he catches his weight on his back leg and straightens up again, shakes his head - shakes off the influence of the Shout.

“You - was that-” Miraak sounds shocked, and then he sounds… ohh dear, he sounds _angry._ “You use my own Shout against me? You try to control _me?_ ”

Then he charges back in, and Chrysanthe has a brief moment of _oh no oh no oh no_ before he throws himself to the side to avoid being run through. For lack of any other plan he turns and runs to put distance between them.

The answer to this is “ **VEN GAAR NOS!** ” and a sudden blast of swirling, dizzying wind that very nearly picks him off his feet altogether. He manages to latch onto a pillar and hold on for dear life until it passes, and then he looks up, dishevelled, to see Miraak closing the distance in determined strides. _Gods_ , that’s a terrifying sight. Miraak wants to kill him. Miraak _will_ kill him; for all the progress Chry has made in his pursuit to become stronger he still doesn’t stand toe-to-toe with his counterpart, not quite. It’s all he can do to backpedal and keep some damn space between them while he figures out what the hell he should do now.

“Come back to me, Dragonborn,” Miraak thunders as he arrives, and Chrysanthe frantically departs. “Running serves no purpose. You cannot escape fate.”

Suddenly and painfully Chrysanthe is reminded of Tyranus, that Vigilant of Stendarr investigating the abandoned house in Markarth. The one who, as soon as Molag Bal had whispered that someone had to die had agreed, readily, without protest. _It’s you or me!_ he’d exclaimed fearfully, and wouldn’t listen to Chrysanthe’s desperate pleas that if they both stood down the daedra would tire of them and let them leave the house unharmed. He’d killed Tyranus in the end because he had no choice, because even using Bend Will wouldn’t drown out Molag Bal’s command. What if this is the same? What if he just can’t shake the hold Hermaeus Mora has?

No, he has to believe. He has to, he has to. As soon as he has his breath back he repeats himself: “ **GOL HAH DOV!** ”

And again, he sees Miraak stagger back. Again, he recollects himself and resumes his pace towards Chrysanthe. But he did… something _did_ happen, even if it was only temporary, and so he must keep trying until the Words take hold. Between Shouts he must rest his lungs, and this entails keeping as much distance between him and Miraak as possible, dodging lightning bolts and flung fire and fields of writhing tentacles Miraak lays on the floor to try and trap him. This, until he feels that swell in his chest again, then he turns and repeats it: “ **GOL HAH DOV!** ”

“ _Stop_ ,” Miraak hisses when he flinches back again and that’s it, that means it’s doing something to him. Miraak knows so too but he has a different motive for Chrysanthe’s Shouts, one that hurts him to hear: “This the fate you plan for me, after all your sweet nothings? This is how much I mean to you, is it? You are but another person who seeks to control me!”

And he wants to retort _I’m not trying to control you I’m trying to break the control of another_ , but he can’t. He must save his breath for the Shout, so he merely grits his teeth and leads Miraak around one of the many stone pillars dotted about the platform, then when he’s not easily intercepted he turns and runs across the dais.

Miraak gives a snarl of frustration, and then- “ **WULD NAH KEST!** ” -Whirlwind Sprint, he moves as a blur and closes the distance between them in one swoop.

Chrysanthe throws up his sword just in time to catch Miraak’s own, eldritch metal clashing with glassy stalhrim. He grunts as Miraak bears down, physically larger and stronger than Chrysanthe, capable of overpowering him with brute strength. “ **GOL HAH DOV!** ” he retorts and it gives him the flinch he needs to push Miraak away. This time he sees the man stumble back, then go down on one knee, the sword clattering to the ground beside him.

His heart leaps into his throat and his lungs expand as the breath returns to him, much sooner that it usually does, so he uses the Shout again.

Miraak gives his own stuttered gasp in reply and falls fully onto his hands and knees, shaking his head as though to clear Chrysanthe’s influence. Chrysanthe’s influence, or someone else’s? Chry draws another great breath and Shouts again.

And again his lungs refill at once, as though someone were breathing the air back into him so he could call on the Words immediately. So he faces Miraak, hunched over and shaking, and Shouts-

-

**G O L**

**H A H**

**D O V**

-

There is a choked sort of noise and then Miraak goes very still, as though in a trance. Chrysanthe too pauses, breath caught in his throat. Was it too much? Has he gone too far and actually taken control of Miraak? Part of him wants to skitter back nervously but the greater part is paralysed by fear and indecision, all he can do is wait to see what happens next.

Miraak then lifts his head and looks at his surroundings, slow and deliberate. It’s a small relief - the scarce few times he’s used Bend Will the person has gone still and slack, unresponsive to their environment. But Miraak looks around, and then he murmurs not in eerie monotone but in a ragged, breathless voice: “I am… master of my own fate…”

“That’s right,” Chrysanthe whispers back, weak with relief and fear that perhaps he shouldn’t be relieved just yet. “I’m not trying to control you and I never will. I just want to get Hermaeus Mora out of your head - _he_ wants us to kill each other, not fate. He doesn’t want us to work together because he knows he can’t stand against us if we do!” Foolish as it may be he steps towards Miraak, thrusts out a hand to help the man up. “Don’t fight me, fight _with_ me, and I promise you we’ll both be free.”

And then he hears it - they both hear it. The languid purr of Hermaeus Mora from above them, and when he looks up at the sky-wound he sees a colossal pupil staring back at him, freezing him in place. "Free? Did you think to escape me, Miraak?” says that wretched abyss, “You can hide nothing from me here. Kill the usurper or be killed, but do nothing and I will keep you here for eternity.”

“I see,” Miraak intones lowly, and Chrysanthe’s heart clenches in his chest. _No please, not after everything._ But then Miraak says, “You were right, he does not want us to work together. All the more reason to defy him.” Then he reaches out to grasp Chrysanthe’s outstretched hand, uses it to pull himself back to his feet with his sword at the ready.

There is a deep, reverberating laugh from the visage of Mora above them, shaking the very skies. “Defy how, Miraak? You are powerless against me.”

Miraak makes a _tch_ sound, then faces a stack of scribbled pages and booms: “ **YOL TOOR SHUL!** " A gout of fire breath emerges from the gaps in his mask and sprays across the acrid paper which catches and crisps immediately. The fire soon dampens, but Miraak draws another breath, far less of a pause than Chrysanthe would require, and repeats the Words to incinerate another swathe of papers in an instant. And Chrysanthe, who only knows the first two words of Fire Breath but it’s better than nothing, joins in as well, reducing carefully-collected knowledge to mere ashes at Miraak’s side.

“Need I go on?” Miraak calls up to the abyss, and Chrysanthe can hear the unadulterated glee in his voice, the victory, the _freedom._ “Should we burn down your entire kingdom or do you get the point?”

“You - you _dare_ -” Hermaeus Mora snarls in fury, “I can take away your Voice whenever I choose-”

“Then why haven’t you?” Miraak demands and Chrysanthe’s face lights up as he realises that’s right, if Mora could deprive Miraak of his ability to destroy the kingdom he would have already done so. But he can’t, because Miraak isn’t under his sway any more.

The answer is a howl of outrage so loud that both Miraak and Chrysanthe wince, but it doesn’t hurt them. Then the pools of black water around the platform surge and froth like an angry tide, and fishlike creatures crawl from it to repay their defiance with death.

Chrysanthe makes haste to sheathe his sword, and snaps the Rueful Axe free of its harness. It rests weightily in his hands; he’s practised wielding it and it’s a slow and cumbersome thing, as though every swing were made with great reluctance. Intended to mirror the woe of the grieving father it was created for, he thinks. But he’s learned how to work with it, and the downsides are more than made up for with its wicked sharpness, an edge that will cut through anything at all.

Miraak observes him switching weapons with an intrigued noise. “I wondered why you carried that thing here, if not to use against me,” he murmurs. “Stay close then, and I’ll cover you. **MUL QAH DIIV**.” With those final Words he re-armours himself, his own sword and staff brandished at the foes currently advancing on them.

“ **MUL QAH DIIV,** ” Chrysanthe echoes, having finally learned the third word of that wondrous Shout. Not only does he feel the ethereal armour settle against him, the magnificent horns thrumming against his head. Protected, his magic enhanced, his Shouts made all the louder. And it takes but a single breath from him, so he’s soon able to lift the Rueful Axe and whisper his next one into the metal: “ **SU GRAH DUN** ,” Elemental Fury, just to ease the sluggishness of his god-slaying weapon.

Then he charges in, as Miraak does the same.

They fell enemies, and more come. They fell those too, and yet more come. “ _Sahrotaar!_ ” Miraak calls to the sky, and the serpentine dragon swoops down to assist before they are overwhelmed by the sheer number of lurkers, seekers and other assorted creatures that lurch from the water pools at Mora’s command. “ _Relonikiv, Kruziikrel!_ ” Two more join in, both more traditionally scaled dragons than Sahrotaar but equally subservient.

The battle is, frankly, madness. The enemies set against them number in the hundreds, and it would be certain death if not for three dovah cloaking everything in flame and frost. There are a few times where Miraak bodily grabs Chrysanthe and hauls him behind a pillar while the entire platform is razed; Chrysanthe uses the lapse in combat to heal his and Miraak’s wounds, the latter’s robes becoming steadily more blood-soaked as the fight goes on. Any touches against Miraak are fleeting and utilitarian, for he doesn’t have time to linger. Even words are too great of a luxury as they both simply look at each other, and then duck back out from behind the pillar to keep fighting.

But at last, at long last after taking down a behemoth of a guardian lurker it seems like Hermaeus Mora has no more to throw at them. The prince gives a sound of unadulterated rage, so far from his usual arrogant and learned baritone, and the abyss in which he resides spreads outwards like an ink stain, cloaking everything in darkness. It’s that same infinite blackness that pulled at his body and mind before, and so Chrysanthe yelps, props the Rueful Axe against him so he can fumble for a magelight to beat back the dark-

He does this just in time to see Miraak turn towards him, and a tentacle poised behind him like a snake ready to strike-

A viscerally wet sound as the tentacle spears straight through Miraak’s abdomen, running him through-

“You cannot escape me,” that voice seethes over Miraak’s gasp of pain, and Chrysanthe’s own terrified cry. Hermaeus Mora is everywhere, all around him, in his ears and his eyes and down his throat. He tries to call Miraak’s name but can’t, only a breathless, sobbing sort of wheeze emerges.

Miraak gives a bloody cough, falling limp around the tendril piercing him as it starts to lift him off the ground. “ _Inevitable_ ,” he whispers like a broken thing.

Half-blinded by tears Chrysanthe wraps his hands around the haft of the Rueful Axe once more, closes the distance between them, brings it down on Mora’s appendage.

There is a _scream_ as the axe slices cleanly the tendril as though it were water. What’s left of it is snatched back into the abyss, the part of it currently impaling Miraak disintegrates, and Miraak himself falls prone with nothing to support him. Chrysanthe half-catches him, struggling to hold his fallen comrade in one hand while brandishing the crushingly heavy axe in the other. But fortunately he doesn’t need to brandish it for long; so shocked at being actually hurt by something, Hermaeus Mora’s darkness recedes like ink sucked down a drain, until it returns to that single black patch it was before.

“ _Get out of my kingdom_ ,” Mora howls at him, every tendril decorating Apocrypha’s skies writhing and thrashing in pain, the hundred eyes of the abyss all rolling madly in non-existent sockets. “This is not over - I want you gone - I will _destroy_ you both - _this is not over!_ ”

A stone structure rises from the dais in the middle of the platform, forming a gate. It contains a tear in space made hastily and spitefully, but Chrysanthe glimpses Tamriel on the other side and his hope soars, even among the utter terror he otherwise feels. He slings the Rueful Axe across his shoulder, hauls the barely-conscious Miraak back to his feet and they stagger to and through the portal, falling through together-

-

-And to the other side, where he crashes to the ground with just enough forethought to 1) throw the Rueful Axe to one side and 2) put himself underneath Miraak. The man still gives a pained sound at the rough landing but it was at least somewhat cushioned. Chrysanthe wastes no time pressing his hand to the wound at Miraak’s stomach, swallowing back his fear at the rush of hot and wet he feels instantly soak his gloves, and pours his strongest healing spell into it.

He’s so busy concentrating on this he misses the frantic shouting from around him. It takes him a good minute to realise it’s Lucien’s voice: “-re you alright?! Is that - is that-”

“He’s wounded,” he says in breathless reply, though it’s not really a reply at all. “Get me every magicka potion we have, strongest first.”

“Got it boss,” that’s Teldryn’s voice, only the faintest waver betraying the nerves under the steady tone. Chrysanthe pays neither of them any more mind, instead draining every last drop of his magicka on healing Miraak, but the man is still lying heavy and too-limp atop him. He’s not dead, Chrysanthe can feel the seeping blood and sluggish heartbeat, but he’s barely breathing at all. Chry grits his teeth, calls on his altmer blood to replenish his magic stores and then tries again, and again.

Teldryn dashes back to his side, a blue bottle in one hand and a red in the other. “Here boss. We’ve got healing potion?”

Chry just shakes his head, “He won’t be able to stomach it, has to be healing magic. Help roll him off me, gentle as you can.”

Both he and Teldryn manoeuvre the not-dead-but-still-deadweight Miraak off him, and Lucien scurries to the side to roll Miraak onto his back as carefully as possible. Chrysanthe sits up at once, reels a little at the liberal coating of red staining the front of his armour, but snatches up the blue potion and gulps it down.

“I’ll do what I can,” Lucien says aloud, pouring his own healing into the prone form - it’s limited compared to Chrysanthe, he’s better with destruction, but anything will help. “What even happened? It’s like he had a hole punched clean through him.”

“Upset Hermaeus Mora,” Chrysanthe mumbles, which is the understatement of the century but he doesn’t have time to elaborate any more than that. His stomach churns in response to the potion but his magicka replenishes so he sets about expending it all again. There is in fact an actual hole in Miraak, how Hermaeus Mora didn’t immediately shatter his spine and puncture all his internal organs is nothing short of a miracle. Actually, he supposes it might have been deliberate - that would have been instant death and Mora actually wanted to make Miraak die as slowly and painfully as possible.

Healing such a grievous injury gives him a gory insight into how the body mends, watching flesh reform and knit together to undo the damage. But it takes all of his magicka to do so, over and over, before it even starts resembling a _normal_ wound that someone might actually survive. Still Miraak’s paper-thin breathing becomes stronger, and the pulse under his fingers does not feel like it is about to beat its last. Chrysanthe is ghostly pale, drenched in sweat and blood and tears, and on the verge of throwing up from too many potions, but it is worth it because Miraak is _alive._

“Get a waterskin and some clean linen wraps, there should be some in the pack,” he tells Teldryn next. It sounds less authoritative when all he can manage is a reedy whisper but the dunmer goes to fetch them at once. He turns back to the man on the floor. “Miraak? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” is the ragged response, which startles him - he expected a nod, or perhaps just a pained noise. Miraak does sound like he’s in pain but he’s forming words, which is remarkable in and of itself.

“I need to undress you to bandage the wound. Can I undo your robes?”

“Yes,” Miraak murmurs sluggishly. Chrysanthe isn’t convinced Miraak really understood him, but he doesn’t offer any protest when Chry unfastens his belt and starts pulling the layers of robes free. He doesn’t end up paying much attention to what actually lies underneath, too distracted by wiping away the liberal coating of blood from the skin and then winding a roll of linen around Miraak’s waist with help from Lucien. He goes through three wraps before he’s satisfied no more blood will seep through. Miraak is silent throughout all of this, likely drifting in and out of consciousness.

He’s therefore surprised when Miraak sighs at him, “ _Dovahkiin._ Is it… over? Am I free?”

Chrysanthe gives a wry smile that hurts his cracked lips. “That depends. If I say yes are you going to die dramatically in my arms?”

There is a rumble that is just about recognisable as a laugh, followed by a strangled noise that conveys instant regret. “Ahh. Ow. No, I will not.”

“Then yes. You’re free,” he says, gentle. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“You told me,” Miraak repeats quietly, before settling back into unconsciousness again.

-

They’re back in Miraak’s temple. He only recognises this when the frantic healing is over and he can actually sit back and take a breather. It’s the same place he read the black book to enter Apocrypha, but it’s no longer in his hands as it usually is when he returns to Nirn. Actually he can’t see the black book anywhere, and when he looks in his suddenly-roomier pack he finds _all_ the black books absent. It makes sense that Hermaeus Mora snatched them all back since they are now, to put it lightly, no longer on speaking terms. Honestly he prefers it this way, he would have had to find some way of destroying or disposing of them anyway.

He does also notice a stark lack of mindless workers still sculpting the temple. “Where did everyone go?” he asks Lucien and Teldryn.

“They all woke up at the same time before you came back,” Lucien informs him. “It was very, um, frantic. Had to talk a few reavers down from attacking everyone. Explained to all of them that they’d been mind-controlled and that they’d woken up because of you - but you were still holding the book in the middle of it all and kind of translucent.”

Miraak must have relinquished his spell during the last fight. Maybe when Chrysanthe’s Bend Will Shout finally got through and the man realised they could leave Apocrypha together. Or maybe when Hermaeus Mora ran him through, who could say. “So the Skaal went back to the village?”

“Yep, after much confusion everyone went their separate ways,” Lucien confirms. “Teldryn and I were worried when you didn’t come back to us right after though! We thought you were stuck in Apocrypha.”

“Almost was. Hermaeus Mora threw a lot of enemies at us,” he says, gesturing idly at Miraak. The man is still laid out on the floor, though with the addition of a makeshift pillow underneath his head. It can’t be comfortable but he doesn’t dare move Miraak until he’s certain he won’t start bleeding out again, and Miraak seems to be blissfully unconscious anyway. “We fought them off together. Oh, and with his dragons, they helped.”

Lucien's eyes widen, “He has a pet dragon?”

“He has three pet dragons,” Chrysanthe corrects, laughing softly as his friend's jaw drops. He grows a bit more serious then. “I hope they’re alright, they didn’t come with us. He did send that other dragon after us, remember Teldryn, so maybe they can pass freely between Oblivion and Nirn? I hope so.”

“…Wait,” Teldryn says suddenly. “We did kill one. So he had _four_ pet dragons?!”

-

“Miraak,” Chrysanthe calls softly, “Are you awake?” When the man stirs in response, turns his head in Chry’s direction: “Can you sit up?”

Miraak makes an effort, gives a strained noise, and then flops back down. “No.”

He funnels some more healing magic into the newly-aggravated wound. He and Lucien have been doing this all evening as soon as they have the magicka to do so, but Miraak is far from healed, so he’s unsurprised that the man can’t move yet. However it’s now slipping into nighttime, stars in the sky and ash on the wind, and he can’t leave the man laying out in the open. “If we could get you on a bedroll we might be able to carry that,” he muses aloud. Miraak is quite large and quite heavy, but between him and Teldryn and… Lucien more there for moral support, but still… “We could get you inside the temple, there are cultists in there but I imagine they’ll be keen to help-”

“No,” Miraak says immediately, “Not safe.”

He frowns, puzzled, “Well they’re hostile to me but they’ll stop when they see you, surely.”

“The cult is… compromised. Some working for Mora,” Miraak murmurs. Chrysanthe wonders how he arrived at that conclusion, but now isn’t the time to ask; Miraak already sounds strained speaking this much. “Will deal with this… later. When I am not weak.”

He bites his lip. “So no entering the temple. It’s not safe to stay outside the temple either though.”

“No more dangerous than… anywhere else,” the man rightly points out. “Stay here for now. New plan tomorrow.”

“Alright, well, I’m just going to build a tent around you then,” Chrysanthe says. “If I leave you out in the open any longer you’re going to get covered in ash.”

He just gets a rumble of assent, so he sets about doing it. Or tries to anyway, his fingers shake and slip so much on the tent-in-progress that Teldryn sighs and takes over, tells him to sit down and drink a damn healing potion already. Honestly, sometimes he’s not sure how he manages at all without Teldryn. Nor without Lucien, who makes him eat something and then pats him on the knee when Chrysanthe’s gaze keeps drifting hopelessly back to Miraak’s prone form.

“He’s going to be alright you know,” Lucien tells him. “It was definitely up in the air whether he’d make it at one point but he’s much more stable now.”

“I know, it’s just…” he swallows heavily. “It was a close thing. I’m not sure what I would have done if I lost him after everything I’ve been through.”

He tells Lucien - and then Teldryn when he finishes setting up the tent and comes to join them - about the ordeal. About fighting against Miraak until he was fighting with him, and how utterly insane it all was. About Mora running Miraak through and how he sliced through the tentacle with the Rueful Axe, which he has now retrieved and reverently wiped clean of blood and ichor. He doesn’t think he really injured Hermaeus Mora since the prince has a thousand other tentacles where that one came from, but he’s certain most weapons could not cut through the limb of a daedra; the shock and outrage of actually being hurt is what caused Mora to finally let them both go.

“…With a lot of declarations for revenge,” he finishes at last, “So I’m expecting an attack by Hermaeus Mora’s servants eventually. Miraak also thinks Mora has infiltrated his cult somehow so they’re not to be trusted yet. And there are a lot of secret Mora worshippers out there, usually among mages and such, so we’ll have to keep an eye out for him sending any of those as well.”

Teldryn gives a low whistle. “You picked a bad daedra to anger, huh?”

He shrugs then, “Well it’s not like there are any _good_ daedra to anger, but yes. I do think we need to leave Solstheim completely, Mora has a lot of ties to this island and the further away from all of that we are, the better.”

Lucien makes a sad face. “But Dumzbthar…”

“Hermaeus Mora doesn’t usually go after friends and loved ones to get to people,” Teldryn points out. “Of course, Mora doesn’t usually do revenge at all, it’s a bit petty for his tastes. He sounds quite vengeful this time, though.”

Chrysanthe sighs. “I’m not going to stop you from staying here for Dumzbthar but if you do, you have to be extra vigilant. There’s every chance Mora will come after you.”

“I’d feel safer travelling with you,” the scholar admits, then his face brightens. “Oh, and! We have Miraak! That means we can get on with Blackreach, right?”

“Blackreach?” Teldryn asks curiously.

“Lost dwemer city underground. We think there’s an elder scroll there - long story, will tell you later,” he waves a hand. “I’d planned to go there with Miraak so yes, once he’s recovered and assuming he agrees, that’s what we’ll be doing next.”

Teldryn hums thoughtfully. “You should take me along. Extra pair of hands, and it’ll stop Lucien from feeling like a giant third wheel. No-one likes travelling with a couple, especially on their first date. That is what this is, right?”

Chrysanthe smacks him on the arm.

-

Lucien and Teldryn agree a night watch and veto his offer to participate, so he turns in for the night. This is of course inside the tent that now houses Miraak, in which an extra bedroll has been set up. He coaxes his counterpart onto a bedroll as well, which mostly involves a lot of pained, awkward shuffling since Miraak still can’t sit upright, but he gets him on there in the end.

“Better?” he asks, and gets a weary nod in return.

He’s aware that he needs to settle down and get his own bedrest, but there are too many things he keeps finding to do. He’s managed to clean himself up but Miraak’s robes are still utterly blood-soaked, or rather have now dried into an unpleasant crust. It’s bothering him too much to leave it be. “Those really need washing. If I do it now and hang them over the campfire they’ll be dry by the morning. Will you let me undress you?”

“You should sleep,” Miraak responds drowsily.

“After I’ve sorted you out.”

He gets a grunt in response, which he thinks translates to Miraak not agreeing but lacking the strength to dispute it. After a moment the man then says: “Left chest pocket.”

“What?”

“Left chest pocket,” Miraak repeats, “Before you wash them.”

Assuming that means _check_ the left chest pocket, he does so, and startles when he contacts something small and solid. His eyes widen when a gold-sapphire band slips from between the folds of dark cloth. “My ring!”

Miraak gives a huff of laughter, presumably at the delight in Chry’s voice. “Gold and blue, like you,” he murmurs with something tired, but warm.

Chrysanthe comes to his sudden realisation with a funny twinge in his chest. “Is that why you wouldn’t give it back? You wanted to carry a piece of me, not a piece of Nirn.”

He gets a noise of assent, no words, but Miraak doesn’t particularly need them. Chry quietly slips the ring back onto his finger, feeling the flicker of magical resistance it offers return to him. _There._ He’s worn other rings since then - he even made another resistance ring for himself at one point - but none of them have felt right. It gleams prettily in the low light… it looks a bit shinier than the last time he wore it actually, as though someone might have polished it. Or run it over and over between gloved fingers.

“…Your robes. Need to wash them,” he mumbles, before his thoughts get carried away.

Miraak’s robes come with quite a few layers so it takes longer than he expects to remove everything. Now there’s no threat of imminent death he can actually pay attention to what Miraak looks like underneath them, which is to say as tall as Chrysanthe is but a lot broader, more solidly built than his own lither elven shape. His skin is pale - possibly paler than anyone else Chrysanthe has ever seen - and his chest is dusted with fine, fair hair. Aside from the obvious wound at his abdomen Chrysanthe notes plenty of other scars to signify old injuries, though some look more deliberate, maybe ritualistic.

“Can I take off your mask?” he asks quietly. The hooded mantle also needs washing - as does the mask at that, it’s as blood-splattered as the rest of him.

Miraak seems to deliberate on this. “…Yes. But do not let anyone else gawk at me.”

It’s no leap of logic to determine that unmasked faces are a personal, possibly intimate thing among dragon priests. So he’s extra careful when he reaches down to assist the man in unfastening it and then the hood is divested and the golden mask is cast aside and he can _finally_ see Miraak’s face.

He’s… in his thirties, maybe? Younger than Chrysanthe expects, obviously not young at all now, but he would have been when Hermaeus Mora took him to Apocrypha and he hasn’t aged since then. Handsome, rugged features which remind Chrysanthe of many nords. That makes sense, he’s atmoran isn’t he? Progenitor of the nords, along with the nedes. Light hair, grown out and tangled, not overly well cared for due to being trapped under a hood all this time. No beard, against his expectations, but he supposes it would be uncomfortable to keep one under the mask.

Slightly distracting from all this however are Miraak’s eyes which, rather than the classic nordic blue Chrysanthe expected, are solid black throughout, the iris a ring of blue-green. If that weren’t enough an indicator of Apocrypha’s influence the skin around his eyes - and his mouth, nostrils and ears as well - is tinged with black, as though someone spilled ink there and then couldn’t wipe it clean. It runs off in pale rivulet-stains down his chin and the sides of his neck and looks… well, it looks like daedric corruption. There’s really no getting around it.

“That bad is it,” Miraak murmurs in response to Chrysanthe’s wide-eyed look.

“No! Well - I mean, it’s-” he sighs. “It’s like you’re… stained. I assume that doesn’t just wash off.”

“It does not,” the other confirms. “…I would like that mask back when you’re done with it.”

“I didn’t mean you make you feel self-conscious,” he says apologetically. “It’s fine, it just looks like, well, like you’ve been living in Apocrypha for a while.” Given most denizens of Apocrypha turn into floating tentacle monsters he thinks Miraak has done very well actually, but he doubts the man would be able to go unmasked in public without a lot of stares and suspicion. He holds the mask in his hands. “Let me clean this and I’ll have it back to you.”

After draping Miraak with a spare cloak for modesty, he ducks out of the tent with mask and robes in hand. He’s intercepted by Teldryn, who tells him in no uncertain terms that he should be resting. “These need a wash,” Chry says pointedly. “If I do it now they can be dry by morning.”

A sigh. “Hand them over and I’ll wash them, then. Now _go to bed._ ”

With no small reluctance he gives them to Teldryn, though he bargains to keep the mask and finds something to wipe it down with. He does this back in the tent in front of Miraak, who watches the whole thing carefully as though he’s waiting for Chrysanthe to drop it or somesuch. His frown lessens when Chrysanthe hands the mask back cleaned and unharmed, though he doesn’t don it for now. It’s kind of funny that Miraak’s face is so expressive, because if he always keeps it covered he has no need to school himself into something more neutral. And in turn because his face is usually covered he’s found Miraak’s body language makes up for it. Even now when he’s laid up he can see Miraak’s fingers flexing to try and gesture when he speaks, though he lacks the energy to do so.

“If you are going to stare at me you should do it lying down,” Miraak tells him.

“…Sorry.” He divests the last of his armour and settles down on his own bedroll. He does end up staring again though, he can’t help it. Miraak has been his nemesis, then his rival, then his tentative friend, then briefly tried to kill him, then they were allies. Now he’s here in front of Chrysanthe, a mortal man - well, sort of. It’s hard not to look, after all that.

His eyes flick back up to Miraak’s face and he finds the man has turned his head to stare at him too with what he suspects is a mirror of his own expression - quite intense. “…You used the Shout on me,” he intones, voice low and quiet, “Bend Will.”

That isn’t quite the topic Chrysanthe thought he was going to broach, and especially not so soon. But it does need speaking of, and he supposes now when neither of them can sleep - despite their clear exhaustion - is as good a time as any. “I did. I couldn’t talk you down with words… so using it was very much a last resort. If it hadn’t worked, well, I didn’t have a plan B.”

“You did not use it to try and control me,” Miraak says. It’s phrased as a statement but Chrysanthe can’t help but interpret it as a question, as Miraak being not quite sure where he stands. He is quite obviously not under Chrysanthe’s control, but he wagers Miraak isn’t sure if maybe he _should_ be.

So he makes his response as crystal clear as he can: “I never used it with the intention of controlling you. Bend Will also breaks the control of others, it’s what I used to break your influence on the All-Maker Stones and the people working around them, and-” _And it’s what you used to free me, even if it wasn’t intentional._ But he doesn’t say that out loud; it’s not exactly a casual conversation and he doesn’t have the energy right now to do it justice. So he continues: “I wanted to break Hermaeus Mora’s hold on you, that’s all, and I only used it because there seemed to be no other way to get through to you.”

Miraak is quiet then. It’s a rare occurrence where his charismatic counterpart isn’t sure how to answer; he wonders if that signifies that Miraak is in fact wildly unsure of himself right now. Chrysanthe probably would be in his shoes. “I did not know he had any hold on me,” he mutters at last, with enough reluctance to tell Chrysanthe he wouldn’t admit this to anyone else. “It seems clear to me now, but at the time…”

Chrysanthe gives him a sad smile. “He’s been whispering to you for four thousand years, Miraak. You are…” he exhales softly, “Incredible. But not invulnerable.”

The more he thinks about it the more multi-layered he realises all those whisperings would have been. It wasn’t so straight-forward as just _you cannot escape._ It was _you can only escape through great means._ It was even _you can escape_ and _fate is on your side_ , just with a side-helping of _but only if you do this._ To truly worm your way into a person’s mind it was not simply a case of crushing their spirit, but of giving them a spark of hope that would burn their own house down.

“I thought otherwise,” Miraak replies wearily. “But now I am free of his influence. I am… free. Am I?”

It does not escape Chrysanthe’s notice that this is the second time Miraak has asked him this. He was barely conscious the first time so perhaps he’s simply forgotten, but he suspects the truth of it is that Miraak can’t quite wrap his head around the concept. He’s wanted freedom for so long - even before he was Hermaeus Mora’s prisoner he was owned by the dragons and their priests. And he was passed to the priesthood as a child, Paarthurnax said, and anything before that was a memory Miraak traded to Mora anyway. So Miraak has never known freedom, not really, and now he finally has it, Chrysanthe would wager he has no idea what to do with it.

So he says, very tentatively: “You're free. I would - I would like you to travel with me, by my side, as an equal. We could do much together. But I can’t make you do anything. You have the freedom to choose, now.”

His words are gentle, even as his heart hammers in his chest. He has a sudden, terrible fear that Miraak will say _then I will go off on my own_ and what would Chry even do, if that were the case? He would massively struggle to simply let Miraak go after everything he’s been through for the man’s sake, but if Miraak wants to, Chry can’t stop him. He’s not Miraak’s owner, he can’t make him stay.

Miraak is silent, deep in thought. Chrysanthe has never missed the man’s brash decisiveness as much as he does right now, but he can’t hold it against him. The world is laid out at his feet in a way it has never been before.

“With you,” Miraak murmurs at last, “I want to stay with you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. The relief is palpable; Miraak certainly does not miss it, given how he casts his eyes over Chrysanthe once again. “I’m glad,” Chry says hurriedly. “The choice is yours and will always be yours but I do - I do want you to stay, as well.”

Miraak wordlessly holds Chrysanthe’s gaze for a long while. Not a stare-down, but more like… it reminds him of their telepathy, and the way that they sometimes found themselves hypnotised by each other. He feels it himself, that reluctance to pull his eyes away. “I want…” Miraak starts, then falls quiet again. Then he exhales and pulls his gaze away and that’s it, spell broken. “I have much I want to say and do but no strength to do it with,” he finishes at last, sounding very tired.

Chrysanthe is tired too. He should… he should probably sleep, rather than gaze wistfully at Miraak all night. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

He pauses then, bites his lip. He is overcome with the urge to be _closer_ , not laid across the tent from each other with an arm’s worth of gap between them as they are. But he isn’t sure if he should; Miraak is tired, Miraak is injured. Miraak has had his whole world view shaken. It seems selfish to want anything of his own after all that.

Chrysanthe is normally very good at keeping his impulses in check but Miraak has a way of breaking all his rules. Unable to quieten himself, he gives in and asks: “…Could I move my bedroll next to yours-”

“Yes,” Miraak replies, almost before Chrysanthe has finished the sentence.

It’s so sudden and unexpected that it wrangles a laugh from him. Miraak gives him a glare in return but doesn’t amend his statement, and his look soon softens when Chry drags his bedroll over to lie next to Miraak with the equivalent of a spring in his step. He lies on his side facing him, and Miraak rolls onto his side too albeit with enough strain to remind them both he’s still injured. Still, he doesn’t waste any time in seizing Chrysanthe’s hand in his and lacing their fingers together with a pleased, throaty noise that sets Chrysanthe’s pulse on staccato. But he is ultimately too exhausted to stay wound up for long; now that the greatest danger has passed he finds himself slipping off to sleep, still clutching at warm fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh we finally made it! Going forwards this story will be covering the events of the main plot and navigating the relationship. A lot of the reasons for Miraak to be overtly villainous are now gone but his redemption is far from complete. Updates might slow a little going forwards as well, depends on how quickly I can write them, but there’s a lot more story still to tell.
> 
> It might also get a bit heavier on the hand-holding from here on out if you know what I mean ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	13. Chapter 13

When Chrysanthe awakes, it is still on his side and facing Miraak, who does the same. The visage startles him - he’s still not used to seeing Miraak’s face rather than his mask - but it is only momentary. It looks like the other is still firmly asleep.

His gaze falls to their hands, still joined, Miraak’s fingers firmly looped with his. That gets a smile out of him, but he ought to get up, fetch Miraak’s robes and catch up with Lucien and Teldryn. He flexes his fingers, moves to extract them-

He yelps when Miraak, seemingly on pure reflex, doubles down on his grasp and drags Chrysanthe’s hand inwards, closer to him. He almost takes Chrysanthe along with it, not expecting to be pulled in as he is. When his gaze snaps from the hand (that is currently being clenched quite hard, _ow_ ) to Miraak’s face he finds him very much no longer asleep but staring right at him, largely unblinking. His scelra are black as the void, and it only makes the blue-green of his irises seem even more vivid, almost burning.

“ _Stay,_ ” Miraak rasps, every fibre of him possessive.

“I’m staying, I’m staying,” he soothes at once, receiving a suspicious look in return. He shifts a little, trying to relieve the vice grip on his hand. “Could you - I need you to let go, you’re hurting my fingers a bit.”

“Hmmm,” Miraak says like he doesn’t really want to, but he does ease his grip a little.

 _Note to self, Miraak is extra dragon-like first thing in the morning_.

He decides to start the conversation over with what he hopes is a coaxing smile. “Good morning. It’s a new day. How are you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday,” Miraak says, or tries to, but now he’s attempting actual sentences his voice comes out as more of a rusty whisper that gives even the man himself pause. “Mm. My throat hurts.”

“You do sound sore. I hope you haven’t picked up an illness already-” Chrysanthe stops, then sighs and inwardly scolds himself. “No, I’m being an idiot. You’re not sick, you’re _thirsty_ , you haven’t had anything to drink yet. Are you hungry as well?”

Miraak tips his head thoughtfully, as though trying to listen to his own body. “…I am not sure,” he admits at last.

Chry gives him a wan smile. “You never had to eat or drink anything in Apocrypha, right? You’ve probably forgotten what it feels like to need things. Let’s get some food and water in you, you’ll feel much better afterwards.” He pauses. “You will need to let go of my hand first.”

He can almost see the internal struggle between that want for water and the want for touch, but eventually the former wins out. Even when Miraak finally releases his fingers the other man brushes against his arm, reaches out to touch Chrysanthe’s leg when he turns away to root through his pack for food and drink - as though he must constantly verify that Chrysanthe is really there. He tries not to pay it too much mind since it’s to be expected, and it’s no hardship for him to stay close. Now that he’s actually around and not a fleeting touch on the other side of a telepathic conversation, perhaps this habit will abate in time. Perhaps.

There’s plenty of touching involved when he helps Miraak to sit upright, which is no small task in itself. The abdomen wound isn’t completely healed yet despite all the magic Chrysanthe has poured into it - he suspects the wound being made by a daedric limb rather than by any normal weapon is something to do with it, like it resists being closed. He’s getting there but it’s a slow process, so Miraak is still in pain whenever he moves. He does manage to sit up eventually, and keep hold of the waterskin Chrysanthe passes to him. Raising it to his mouth he takes a gulp - and unfortunately, immediately coughs it all back up again.

“Gah! Alright, alright-” he retrieves the waterskin, which Miraak drops at once to clap a hand over his mouth instead, bile-tinged water spilling between his fingers with each wracking cough. The man looks so thoroughly miserable by the end of it that Chrysanthe can’t help but loop an arm around him to draw him close - for healing, but the larger part of it is for comfort. He expects Miraak to protest, loathe to be pitied as he usually is, but the man merely leans into him, shuddering.

“…Tell me I am going to get better than this,” he mutters at last, sounding wretched.

“You will, but it takes time. It’s been less than a day since you fell out of Apocrypha with a hole in your stomach,” Chry reminds him softly as he mends whatever damage that coughing fit inflicted. “We need to get you accustomed to drinking and eating as well. Let’s try again but very very small sips, yes?”

Tiny sips seem to be the way to do it. Chrysanthe tries him on some bread as well but it’s soon apparent that Miraak hasn’t the strength to chew, and can barely keep anything down.

He only realises how long they’ve been at this when Teldryn makes himself known from outside the tent, though he doesn’t peer inside. “Boss, you alright? What’s the plan for today?”

“Hold on, I’ll be out in a minute!” Chrysanthe calls, then frowns as he contemplates what to do next. It doesn’t look like Miraak will be well enough to move today and he needs to get some sort of plan in place. He passes the waterskin to Miraak again. “Give me a moment to talk to the others. Maybe if I send them to get some better food… just keep trying to drink water for now.”

Miraak only gives a forlorn noise of assent, left despondent by his slow recovery. Chrysanthe suspects he hasn’t been grievously injured for a while - possibly not since the almost-death when Hermaeus Mora whisked him to Apocrypha to begin with - and as such has no real sense for how long a recovery ought to take. He’s Dragonborn so he’ll heal faster than anyone else would anyway, but by that same virtue he doesn’t deal too well with being so weakened. Chry can’t do anything about that for now so he ducks out of the tent, emerging into the cool, crisp air of Solstheim, and Teldryn waiting for him. He needs to speak to Lucien too, so he gestures them both over to the campfire they’ve set up.

“Miraak isn’t well enough to move, so we’re stuck here for another day,” he informs them both. “Would you mind running some errands for me in Raven Rock? I wouldn’t normally ask this but I have to stay here and keep healing him.” They both agree readily, evidently keen to help. “We’re low on food, and what we do have, he can’t eat. We could do with… I don’t know, soup or something. I’d also like some clean linen wraps - as many as you can find to buy, really - and more potions. A potion of well-being if Milore is selling any, and if I can get Miraak to keep that down it should speed his recovery.”

“If we go to Raven Rock together will you be alright on your own?” Lucien asks.

“I should be.” He can confidently fend off most of Solstheim’s dangers by now; he’s more worried about Teldryn and Lucien running into trouble. “Just… come back as soon as you can. I’m conscious we can’t stay this close to the temple for too long, the sooner we can move on the better.”

Once the two have taken their leave Chrysanthe… checks back in on Miraak, props the tent flaps open so he can have some fresh air. Retrieves the now cleaned and dried robes from the campfire, realises that Miraak could do with a wash before donning them again. Can’t leave the area so gathers up some snow in a cooking pot and sets that melting over the campfire instead. Gets impatient with that and helps it along with some of his - meagre, but sufficient - flame magic. He finds so long as he keeps himself busy he doesn’t leave space to worry. Currently he has a lot to worry about.

When the snow-turned-bathwater is warmed enough he takes it over to the tent and finds Miraak not still tentatively sipping water, but sitting upright with his legs crossed and head bowed, as if in meditation. If Chrysanthe squints he can just about see flickering light at the edges of Miraak’s form, and his hair stirring in a breeze that does not belong to the outside world. He watches in curious fascination for a moment, remembers he has swiftly-cooling water in his hands. He sets that down on the tent ground, the noise of which causes Miraak to look up, and whatever magical effect he had in place is broken.

“Sorry,” Chrysanthe whispers, even if he’s not sure exactly why he’s whispering. Unsure what else to say, he gestures vaguely at the pot. “What were you doing?”

“Absorbing some of my dragon souls to heal. I am fed up of being injured,” Miraak tells him bluntly. He sounds… better, than he did earlier, having had enough water to chase away the croak in his voice. Though, a larger part of it might be to do with… whatever it was he just did. It’s a trick Chrysanthe isn’t familiar with, he’ll have to get Miraak to teach him that one.

Since Miraak does seem to be feeling better, Chry feels within his rights to tease a little: “Would these be the same dragon souls I gave to you? Thirteen of them if I remember.”

Miraak snorts. “ _Gave_ to me? I stole these fairly, therefore they are mine.” Then his look softens a bit. “It was those souls. Fitting, that what I took from you would be used for healing and not destruction.”

“I didn’t mind you taking them for what it’s worth,” Chrysanthe points out.

“No, you never seemed inconvenienced by my theft, much to my vexation.” At Chry’s raised eyebrow, Miraak elaborates: “I originally stole them as revenge for your disruption, remember. It was intended to anger you, but it never did. And before long it was simply the means for us to communicate, and for me to glimpse you in Nirn.” He eyes the altmer thoughtfully. “I have fought your friendship every step of the way and you still persevered. Most people would have, if not declared me an enemy, at least walked away.”

He doesn’t really know how to answer that apart from with a shrug. “I’m not most people. _You’re_ not most people. We’re two of a kind, we have to stick together.”

“We do,” Miraak agrees quietly. Then he casts his eyes to the pot Chrysanthe brought in. “…Is that hot water?”

“Oh, right-” he nearly forgot about it _again._ “Yes, I thought you might want a wash before dressing. Do you think you can do it yourself?” He can and will help if he needs to, but he figures Miraak probably needs a dose of dignity right now.

“Yes. Though I will need…” he has the suspicion the other Dragonborn does not like using the word _help_. “It would be useful to have assistance dressing,” Miraak settles on at last.

So he agrees, waits outside the tent while Miraak cleans himself up. It takes some time, and he wonders if Miraak perhaps could have done with his aid after all. Perhaps he should have been more persistent but, helping someone bathe is quite - well - intimate. It’s stupid to be skittish over that; they _are_ intimate, maybe not physically, definitely emotionally. They’ve kissed, sort of. Even so, he’s wary of crossing boundaries, especially when Miraak isn’t at his best.

“I am done,” he hears, so ducks back inside the tent. The improvement is minimal - there’s only so much that can be done with a cloth and a bucket of water - but it’s an improvement nonetheless. There are still ink stains around his eyes, but as Miraak stated those appear to be permanent. Then it’s a case of changing the bandage at his waist, inspecting the wound (pink and tender, not healed yet), healing it further. Dressing Miraak as much as possible while he’s still sat down, then helping him to his feet. Folding robes shut, tying the sash at his waist, fastening the armour at his shoulders-

Miraak places one finger under Chrysanthe’s chin and tips his head up a little. It has the - he assumes intended - effect of freezing Chrysanthe up at once, and he meets Miraak’s thoughtful gaze, his own wide with surprise.

“You are very focused when you work,” Miraak murmurs, “You know I have been trying to catch your eye for five minutes and you haven’t noticed?”

“I - ah-” he swallows. Miraak’s finger is still curled under his chin. “Did you want to discuss something?”

There’s a _hmmm_ sound and Miraak takes his hand away, but it’s still hovering between them and Chrysanthe is quite aware of it. “I have been thinking. You have done a great deal for me. Freed me, healed me, cared for me. How do I repay this?”

He presumes this is Miraak’s version of _thank you_ , as he suspects that actual phrase doesn’t really exist in Miraak’s dictionary. “Help me defeat Alduin,” he returns because, well. That was the whole plan. “He’ll destroy the world if I can’t stop him, and I need another Dragonborn at my side. Do that and we’re even.”

Miraak tilts his head to the side as though in query. “I will not abide my freedom being cut short by Alduin, so I will help. But I would have had to kill himself myself anyway. Do you want nothing else?”

Chrysanthe smiles knowingly at him. “Your allegiance and your guidance.”

He sees the corner of Miraak’s mouth curl up in response. “Ahh. And so I come to where I should have always been.”

“I did say these things have a way of working out,” Chry points out, tone wry. Then pauses as he remembers something. “You know I’ve realised something else that worked out strangely between us.”

“Oh?”

He takes a breath. Despite his casual tone this is actually quite a heavy subject one he’s been unsure on how to broach with Miraak since his realisation, though it does need broaching. “When you took control of Solstheim for the first time, by my count about eleven months ago, you used the Bend Will Shout to do it, right?”

“Through dream-whispering, and along with the ritual used to create my mantra, yes. Bend Will is what made people listen to it,” the other confirms, a little puzzled.

“Eleven months ago,” Chry says softly, “I woke up in a strange cave, no longer a thrall.”

Miraak stares at him.

“It could just be a coincidence,” Chrysanthe adds when Miraak still doesn’t say anything. “But you said yourself a sense of familiarity is a side-effect of that magic you used. And from the moment we first met in Apocrypha I could’ve sworn up and down that I knew your voice from _somewhere._ What if it was from then?”

“But you were in Skyrim at the time,” the Dragonborn manages eventually, “Not Solstheim.”

He can only shrug. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Miraak echoes with something almost wondrous. Though his expression does shift, then. “…To be upfront, I did not deliberately free you.”

“No no, I never thought that you did. You had no idea I existed. But still, you _did_ free me. Then I freed you.”

“Fate makes us not enemies but liberators,” he murmurs, though his expression flits into something dark. “Hermaeus Mora nearly took this from me.”

“He was setting himself up to win whether you killed me or I killed you,” Chrysanthe agrees. Miraak’s expression is still a little stormy, no doubt concocting plans for vengeance, so Chry nudges him. “He didn’t succeed, is the important thing. Living well is the best revenge.”

“Bloody death is the best revenge,” Miraak retorts, “…But I take your point. Mora did not win, and I will ensure he does not take you from me. And I will not allow Alduin to cut our liberation short, nor will I suffer anyone else that might come between us. You and I-” and Chrysanthe is so caught up in the grandiose statements, because gods Miraak is good at those, that he startles when he feels Miraak cup the side of his face, thumb resting on his cheekbone. “You and I are bound by fate, and I will keep it that way,” Miraak breathes, eyes locked onto Chrysanthe’s. They seem alight despite their blackness, the iris burning bright. “Say you feel the same? You must do. You have shown me such devotion. You must do.”

 _Only do this if you would walk with him until the end of days. Once you have brought him to your side he will not be able to live without you, nor you without him,_ Idgrod had told him. And oh, she was right. Miraak categorically cannot live without him, he thinks, and Chrysanthe doesn’t want him to either.

“I-” Divines, it’s so easy to get swept away by the hurricane that is Miraak’s personality, but he remembers at the very last minute that he can all too easily be flattened by it too. “I’m devoted but not - subservient,” he manages. His words are shaky in the face of Miraak’s confidence but better that than to simply agree with him and bring about misunderstanding. “You have to treat me as an equal and not as a lesser.”

“Equal, yes,” Miraak says fervently. His _eyes_. Chrysanthe can’t look away. “Be mine, and I will be yours.”

Then he leans forward, or maybe Chrysanthe does instead, and Miraak’s hand is in his hair and his are on Miraak’s chest and-

They both snatch back when they hear audible footsteps crunching across the snow.

“ _Chry, we’re back!_ ” That is Lucien’s voice. Not an enemy, no danger, _still safe_. But he and Miraak were both caught unawares, lost in each other as they were, and Miraak seems as muddled at being pulled from the moment as Chry feels.

Typically, Miraak recovers first. “My mask,” he mutters, looking about for it.

Chry plucks it from the floor and hands it to him, then rubs his chest to soothe his thumping pulse. It’s very odd going from such heat to nothing at all, and a part of him feels like the world has somehow done him an injustice. Obviously not Lucien’s fault, he had no idea what he was interrupting. And Chry might even call it a reminder by the universe that they are far from safe out here - someone far less friendly could have approached them and they would have been off-guard. Now is not the time and place to be vulnerable.

“Better,” Miraak says when he’s fixed his mask in place. He seems far more collected, and not just in the sense that his face and all its expressiveness is obscured, Chrysanthe is quite certain there’s a psychological element to it too. “We can continue this later.”

“Later,” Chrysanthe breathes. Much later.

-

Lucien and Teldryn are a little surprised to see not only Chrysanthe emerge from Miraak’s tent but the man himself, dressed and masked. Only the stiffness of his movement while stooping down to step outside betrays his lingering injury, but otherwise Miraak appears perfectly fine, which is likely entirely deliberate.

“Oh my goodness!” Lucien exclaims, hurrying over to meet them but stopping up short before Miraak, craning his neck upwards. “You’re really - I can’t believe you’re up and about already! And you’re… _gosh you’re tall._ I hadn’t quite realised-” he looks between Miraak and Chrysanthe, who is a high elf, with an increasingly woeful expression, while Chry has an increasingly amused one. “Chry, you didn’t tell me he was that tall! Look at the two of you!”

“Feeling like a shortstack are we?” Teldryn calls out, approaching far more casually.

“You’re the same height as me, Teldryn!”

“And yet somehow you still seem like the shortest one here. You should think taller.”

Lucien huffs and turns back to Miraak. “Lucien Flavius, at your service. Scholar, wizard and imperial of Perfectly Reasonable Height, thank you very much. A-ah, um-” whether he means to or not Miraak is doing his looming thing again, and Lucien’s jovial manner slips into somewhat more of a nervous one. “Pleased to meet you, um, Mr Miraak, sir.”

Miraak hums thoughtfully. “Deferential. I like it.”

Chrysanthe rolls his eyes. “ _Miraak_ , Lucien has been instrumental in my efforts to free you, so please treat him with respect.” He then gestures to his other travelling companion, “And this is Teldryn Sero, a mercenary who helped me get around Solstheim.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” says Teldryn with calm politeness, because he’s much cooler than Lucien is.

“Miraak, first of the Dragonborn, greatest of the dragon priests - until I turned against them anyway,” Miraak returns, while Chrysanthe tries to hide his smile. _Humble_ has never been one of Miraak’s traits. “Servant of Hermaeus Mora no longer, I am pleased to say. If you have both aided in my emancipation, I thank you. I will also be the consort of your master, going forwards,” he adds as an apparent afterthought.

He sees both Lucien and Teldryn startle at both at the bold declaration of _consort_ and at the use of the word _master,_ though not as much as Chrysanthe himself. “I wouldn’t call myself master to either of them,” he manages, deciding to tackle the other part of that statement later.

Miraak tilts his head. “They call you ‘boss’, do they not?”

“Well… yes. But Lucien travels with me so he might see the world, and Teldryn for a share in the treasure. They’re not servants.”

“As you say,” Miraak shrugs, which Chrysanthe thinks might actually mean _close enough._ He turns to the two apprehensive men. “I will endeavour not to command you, then, if you will show me the same courtesy.”

“You have the most fascinating way of speaking,” gushes Lucien, who is blessedly hard to offend and easy to intrigue. “Did everyone from your era speak like this? Was Dovahzul a common language or was it just the priesthood? I have so many questions about the Merethic era if you’d be willing to answer-”

“Let’s try and get some food in him first, alright?” Chrysanthe interrupts gently before his friend gets too carried away. Lucien sighs, but relents. “What did you manage to get?”

Teldryn sets his pack down, withdrawing a few flasks. “I have soup but Garyn only had tomato and I thought it might be too rich. He was selling ash yam stew though so I’ve brought some of that too.”

Chrysanthe pulls a face. “Of all the foods you spent money on ash yam stew?”

“What’s wrong with ash yams?”

“The clue is in the name. They taste like ash.”

“They have a subtle and complex flavour,” Teldryn sniffs in response. “I have horker loaf if you’re feeling fussy.”

“I thought the ash yam stew might work a treat actually,” Lucien chimes in, “On account of it being… aah… subtle and complex,” he amends mid-sentence at Teldryn’s Look.

“Hmm.” It’s not a bad point to make. Chrysanthe looks over to Miraak. “Loathe as I am to have your first meal on Nirn be anything ash yam related, you probably want to start with mild food first and work your way up. Do you want to give it a go or risk the tomato soup?”

“I will… try the stew,” Miraak answers, albeit dubiously. He takes the offered flask then looks back at the tent as though debating whether to head back in there and eat - of course, he would have to take his mask off. But either through the decision that Chrysanthe’s companions could be trusted, or simply a desire not to bend over to duck back into the tent again, he takes a seat on some of the temple scaffolding instead. The mask is pushed up, not all the way, just enough to expose his nose and mouth really, and if Teldryn and Lucien have any comment on the sight of Miraak’s pale and ink-stained skin, they keep it to themselves. They do watch however, as he unlids the flask to reveal the thoroughly unappetising greyish goop inside, and takes a small and tentative mouthful of it.

After a moment’s thoughtful munching, Miraak says: “…That is completely tasteless.”

Chrysanthe snorts. “I did warn you. Subtle and complex flavour was it, Teldryn?”

“I claim that the judge is heavily biased and may have taken bribes,” Teldryn says archly, then when Miraak takes another bite: “Aha, he’s still eating it! I rescind my previous statement.”

“It is very bland,” Miraak comments, going for another spoonful, “I am not having any trouble keeping it down.”

“A point in favour of ash yams!”

“Teldryn, ‘I can keep it down’ is not a compliment to the food,” Chrysanthe sighs. “Let’s all eat, shall we?”

-

Later, when Miraak has finished a third of the stew (which is quite good progress, considering), he and Chrysanthe sit quietly on the scaffolding together. Since Teldryn and Lucien are both busy and out of earshot, Chrysanthe nudges Miraak a little. “They seem more comfortable around you now. I think you caught them off-guard with that earlier statement that you were my _consort_ , though.”

“I am your consort, as you are mine,” Miraak points out, a frown in his voice. “I think you mean to say _you_ were caught off-guard. Did my declaration offend you?”

Damn it, Miraak can see right through him. “No - well - offend isn’t the right word, I was surprised. Your phrasing was very bold.”

“Sometimes one must leave no room for misinterpretation,” Miraak says quite unapologetically. “I was looking for signs of jealousy as well but I could not detect anything, which is pleasing.”

Chrysanthe does splutter at that. “ _Really?_ ”

“They are both very devoted to you. The dunmer in particular. You cannot blame me for being suspicious.”

“ _Really_ ,” Chrysanthe says again flatly. “Teldryn isn’t devoted to me at all, he just likes how much treasure I give him.”

“He would work for you for free,” Miraak says with such certainty that Chry is actually second-guessing himself now. “But this seems to be born of respect and fondness… platonic, that is. I can accept this. I have no further suspicions, so I shall be less overt next time. These are the only two we will travel with, yes?”

“There’s an old priest in Dawnstar I used to travel with if you’d like to grill him for any romantic intentions as well.” The heavy silence that follows this tells him that Miraak is seriously considering this. Chrysanthe gives a put-upon sigh and prods him. “There is no-one but you. Honestly.”

“And there will only be me?” Miraak asks. “I do not share. I assumed this was obvious.”

“It’s very obvious.” It’s hardly the shock of the century to learn that Miraak has a possessive streak, owed to his dragon blood and dragon priest upbringing and subsequent imprisonment and… well just everything really. Chry resolves not to hold it against him. so long as it doesn’t become problematic. He gives a softer sound and strokes his fingers over the arm he’s just prodded. “It’s you and only you, I promise. Try not to get too growly around other people.”

“I am not _growly_ ,” Miraak growls, but the lessened tension in his shoulders does suggest that he’s satisfied with this, so Chrysanthe is as well.

-

The peace is not to last, however.

It’s approaching afternoon and he’s half-way through another healing session on Miraak when his other two companions approach, just far enough past a jog to be a cause for concern: “Boss, there’s a group coming over, looks like Skaal,” rasps the latter.

“Skaal?” Chrysanthe asks, then pales. “Ohh no.”

Miraak looks over at once, immediately tense. “These are enemies?”

“No! No, no they’re not,” Chry responds at once, well aware that this situation will swiftly need defusing. “…But they don’t like you because they think you serve Mora, who killed their shaman. Aaand because you took some of their people to work on your temple. Teldryn, how far away are they?”

“Not-“

“Skaal-Friend?” That would be Frea’s voice coming from the other side of the rise.

“…Very far,” Teldryn mutters. “They must have run the last distance.”

He definitely can’t hide Miraak in time. There’s no choice, he’s just going to have to explain himself. He hurries off the ledge he was sat upon, placing a hand on Miraak’s arm as he hastens to stand as well. “Let me speak with them. Please don’t say anything that will turn this into a fight.”

“Can’t he just apologise?” Lucien asks nervously.

Miraak makes a disagreeable noise. “I will not give a false apology and I doubt your Skaal would hear it either. I will be silent, but if I am attacked I will defend myself.”

That’s as good as he’s going to get, he thinks. Miraak has released the people of Solstheim now, but Chrysanthe is under no impression that the man regrets his actions. As far as Miraak concerned it is nothing compared to his own imprisonment in Apocrypha, and Chry doubts he could make Miraak be more sympathetic – not yet, anyway. He hurries to try and intercept Frea, but she’s swifter than he is, and following the sound of voices. He rounds the Tree Stone only to practically run into her, as well as the company of Skaal hunters she brought with her.

Before Chrysanthe can say anything at all the consternation on Frea’s face becomes delighted surprise. “Friend, you are unharmed! You had me worried when you did not return with the others-“

Then she looks past him, to Lucien, to Teldryn… to Miraak, who has risen to a wary stand from where he sat. Wordless, but Chrysanthe suspects that his appearance does all the talking for him.

“Frea,” Chry says hastily, in the hopes of getting her attention again, but she gives him only a glance before her gaze snaps back to Miraak, eyes increasingly wide. _Damage control Chrysanthe, damage control!_ “I’m sorry, I should have sent word to you. Did all your people return safely? I fought Hermaeus – Herma-Mora I mean, and I’ve lifted his influence from the island-“

“That mask,” Frea says slowly, tinged by fear, “That is the mask everyone described, from their sleepwalk. That is _Miraak_.”

And then fear darkens into something else. The surrounding Skaal shift warily, sensing the change. So too does Chrysanthe, and he carefully posits himself between Miraak and Frea to block her view of him. “It is Miraak,” he says very carefully. “I’ve freed him from Mora’s influence. He’s not your enemy-“

“ _Not my enemy?_ ” Frea cuts him off incredulously. “My father lies dead because of him and you claim he is not my enemy?”

“The one who killed Storn was Herma-Mora,” he points out as steadily as he is able. “Miraak was kept prisoner by Mora as well.”

“No, Miraak traded his soul to Herma-Mora for power! He is not a prisoner, he is a servant!” She tries side-stepping Chrysanthe, though he swiftly moves to block her. That earns him a glare before she simply looks past him and calls over his shoulder. “Miraak! You have committed many crimes against the Skaal, what do you have to say for yourself?”

He cannot afford to glance back at Miraak - he’s sure that as soon as he takes his eyes off Frea she will push past him - but the utter lack of words in response to her question speaks volumes.

“Why are you silent?” she snaps. “You will not even explain why you took my people as slaves? Am I not even worth an explanation?”

“Frea,” Chrysanthe says firmly before she can say anything else - or more importantly before Miraak can retort. He cannot think of anything Miraak could say that would improve this situation, so he wills the man to be silent instead. “What Miraak did was wrong, but it is over. He’s no longer corrupting the Stones. You have all your people back. Storn’s death was not for nothing. It is over.”

Frea looks back at him in disbelief. “My father sacrificed himself so you could kill Miraak, not so you could free him! How - you were named Skaal-friend! How could you do this to us?!”

The words sting, but he tries not to let it show. “I _am_ a friend to the Skaal. Have you forgotten how much I helped your village?”

“Have you forgotten how much harm Miraak brought to it?!” she returns furiously. “He twisted our sacred Stones and made puppets of our people! I cannot allow someone who hurt us so to live.”

She draws the axes that sit at her side and the Skaal that accompany her do the same, though he can see that uncertainty in the gesture. In his peripheral Lucien and Teldryn both tense and look to him for what to do. Forcing himself to stay calm, Chrysanthe keeps his weapon stowed, aware that this situation will escalate all too easily. “Frea,” he says again, this time warningly, “Don’t do this.”

“Do not scold me like a child,” she hisses, “You are the one in the wrong here, not I. Stand aside.”

“No.” He levels her with an unwavering stare. He suspects she might interpret it as cold, and maybe even imperious. She doesn’t flinch away from it, even as the others in her group do. “I have chosen to make him my ally. If he brings further harm it’s on my head, but I have made my decision.”

“You can’t - this can’t be - he’s controlling you. He’s gotten into your head somehow, like he did with everyone else,” she accuses at last. “You’re under his influence. When I kill him you’ll see sense-”

And he sees it, the way she shifts her weight as though to run forward, past him, to Miraak, how her band of people move to do the same. They don’t want to, he can tell that much, but they’ll follow their shaman to the death. Death is exactly how this will end.

Damn it.

He takes a breath, and then- “ **ZUN HAAL!** ”

The Shout curls around the Skaal like a thieving breeze, and pulls the assortment of weapons from each of their hands to clatter to the floor – including from Frea. With it comes a tangle of confused yelps, and as Frea looks at him wide-eyed, unsure whether to be more angry or afraid, Chry simply says: “Disarming you is the least of what I can do to you. Don’t make me do anything more, Frea. Take your people and return home, and I will take Miraak away from Solstheim.”

She stares at him. She looks like she wants to fight, like she wants to scream and most of all like she just wants to cry. “If I see him again,” she whispers hoarsely, “I will not walk away.”

“Noted.” He doesn’t plan on her seeing Miraak again.

She and the other Skaal retrieve their weapons from the ground and traipse back towards the village. Chrysanthe watches them go, tight as a drawn bow, until they’re out of sight, and only then gives a shuddering exhale of relief.

“ _Ohhh_ my gosh,” Lucien mumbles from next to him, sounding as weak as Chrysanthe feels. “That felt like a bloodbath narrowly avoided. Nice work, Chry.”

“I’ll say,” Teldryn adds, rubbing his shoulder, sword-arm worked into painful tension. “I wouldn’t say that went _well_ exactly, but it could have gone a lot, lot worse.”

Chry swallows and turns to Miraak, who is still stood with his arms crossed. He can read the unhappiness in his hunched shoulders; he suspects the man viewed that conversation as a battle lost rather than drawn. “Thank you for not speaking, as I asked,” he tells him quietly.

“I would have preferred to be able to defend myself,” is the terse response.

“You would have only made her angrier,” Chrysanthe says, still going for a soothing tone, “Staying silent was the best thing you could have done.”

“And with my silence you kowtowed to her and forced me to leave Solstheim.”

“You would have left anyway. All of our business is on mainland Skyrim, there’s no reason to stay on this island anymore.”

“But I would have _left,_ not have been _made to leave_ ,” Miraak responds sharply, “And _you_ may have no further business on Solstheim, but my temple is still here, and much of my cult is housed within it.”

It sometimes slips Chrysanthe’s mind that Miraak literally has his own cult. Maybe because he’s seen the altogether more human side of the other Dragonborn, he forgets that Miraak has people who actually worship him as though he were a god. Whether or not he agrees with that principle, he does agree that Miraak is therefore responsible for them, including having a place that they can live and… work, whatever it is the cult does when they’re not hunting false Dragonborn down. “Can you move them? There are plenty of former dragon priest temples in Skyrim they could live in.”

Miraak makes the sort of noise that suggests Chrysanthe has just said something massively offensive. “I’m not putting my cult in _another priest’s temple,_ ” he says, sounding as scandalised as Chrysanthe has ever heard him. Under any other circumstance it might even be funny, but Miraak is genuinely displeased with him right now. “A temple is a priest’s seat of power, it is intensely personal. Furthermore the spirit entombed there would still influence the place, even after you gave them second death. I don’t want another priest whispering to my cult, they will turn them against me.”

“Alright alright fine, not in another priest’s temple,” he holds up his hands apologetically. “If they do stay here, can you communicate with them long distance? You did when you were in Apocrypha.”

“Through dreams. It is… imperfect, as communication goes, but it would suffice,” Miraak admits, but still sounds annoyed. “I don’t see why we must pander to the Skaal at all. We could simply kill them, they are not that numerous.”

In his peripheral he sees Lucien look up in worried startlement and Teldryn, who is better at masking his reactions, shift his weight from one leg to the other. Chrysanthe merely sighs. He’s is a great believer in this redemption, but not so naive as to believe that freeing Miraak from Apocrypha would magically turn him into a moral person. As such Chry is not as horrified at this suggestion as his companions are - and indeed most people would be - but that’s not to say he condones it. “I’ve no wish to wipe out an indigenous people. They’re normally peaceful, they’re just angry at you. With good reason.”

Miraak is of course unapologetic. “You know why I did what I did.”

“Yes, and I also know why they want you dead because of it,” Chry points out. As Miraak prepares to protest further, he takes on a softer tone: “This world has enough bloodshed as it is. Taking down bandits and such is one thing, but this is completely avoidable, so it should be avoided. If we’re to travel together, I would like you to act on the assumption that death is our _last_ resort, not our _first_. Can you do that? For me?”

He wagers Miraak is not exactly in agreement with him, but after some restless shuffling, he gets a put-upon sigh. “Fine. I had planned to leave Solstheim anyway, so the Skaal will live. But my cult stays to guard my temple as a base of operations, and in case I have need of it again.” That means if he and Chrysanthe ever part ways, though Chry hopes that will not happen.

“And they won’t attack the Skaal if they come to worship at the Tree Stone?”

“Unless the Skaal attack them first,” he replies blithely. When Chrysanthe gives him a Look: “…They will make themselves scarce if the Skaal visit the Stone. But they will defend the temple if anyone tries to enter or desecrate it.”

He suspects that’s as good a compromise as he’s going to get. He doesn’t think he’s asking a lot - don’t instigate any fights, basically - but for Miraak, who would rather dominate everything and has more than enough power to do it with, any sort of give towards the Skaal is a bruise to the ego. Never mind that the Skaal walked away from that conversation no happier than Miraak is. Still, he goes for the diplomatic approach: “That will work. Thank you for doing this for me.”

“I am only doing this because you ask it,” is the grumbled response.

Still a win, as far as Chrysanthe is concerned. Idgrod’s words come to him: _He will never be pure. But for you he’ll try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it emerged while writing that, when he’s not fixated on killing Chrysanthe, Miraak makes for _really intense_ boyfriend material. He’s also used to, shall we say, a more direct approach to relationships than poor Chry is used to. I'd say this story doesn't really count as slow burn anymore but it did take us, uh... about 80k words to get to this point so I guess it still counts.


	14. Chapter 14

So they make plans to leave Solstheim. He was going to linger here another day and give Miraak more time to recover but Chrysanthe is feeling more endangered than ever, and Miraak _is_ up and walking around so they can move on. At the very least they should try to move further from the Skaal before Frea changes her mind and returns.

“I must speak with my cult before we leave,” Miraak declares. “It is better if I do so alone. I will enter the temple and return shortly.”

Chrysanthe is not a huge fan of this idea. “Can I not come in with you?”

“They worship me as the one true Dragonborn. Your presence would… complicate matters.” Chrysanthe feels a little stir of annoyance at that, Miraak had no hesitation over announcing their relationship to Lucien and Teldryn, but he wants to keep it a secret from his cult? He tries to stamp down on that feeling - he has no say in what Miraak does and does not tell his followers - but it lingers like a moody shadow.

He’s more transparent than he realises, because Miraak tilts his head at him. “ _Dovahkiin._ It is my intention to introduce you eventually, but only after the cult’s loyalty is assured. Introducing you now would sow discontent, unless I declare you my inferior, and you specifically told me that was not how you wished to be treated.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He’s not exactly satisfied with the answer, but it’s not like he has any idea how cult politics work, while Miraak assuredly does. “You said earlier you thought the cult was compromised, though. What if they attack you?”

“I can defend myself if I must. I do not expect to be attacked however; I know Mora was influencing them but they still obeyed my dream-orders as well, so they are not turned against me.” Miraak pauses thoughtfully. “Earlier, when you mentioned… where you thought you heard my voice before, it reminded me of something. If I recall, the first familiarity was when you saw my name on a note held by some cultists who attacked you?” When Chry confirms: “Do you still have that note?”

“Uh - I think I do, actually. Hold on…” he fetches his pack from the tent and goes rooting around. It’s right at the bottom and a bit of a crumpled mess after months of being down there, but he does find it. _Kill the False Dragonborn known as Chrysanthe before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

He hands it over to Miraak who scrutinises it. “…This was not an order given by me,” he comments at last, “And you received this before we met for the first time in Apocrypha?”

“Months before. Looking into who you were is half the reason I went to Solstheim in the first place.”

A disgruntled sound. “My feeling is that Hermaeus Mora gave this order, with the exact intention of luring you over.”

“You really think so?”

“The note mentions me by name, tells you exactly where to find me and the term ‘False Dragonborn’ would be impossible for you to ignore,” Miraak states, all of which are very good points and Chrysanthe feels a bit silly for not having realised that sooner. “It is possible that whoever wrote this was acting on an order they believed came from me - Mora may have approached them in my guise - but it is so specifically designed to make you come to Solstheim that I suspect a more… direct intervention occurred. That means I have at least one traitor in my circle.” He carefully folds the paper and places it within his robes. “I shall have them all write out an oath to me and see if it matches anyone’s handwriting. If not I will show them the note and see if they know who wrote it, and this should lead to the person controlled by Mora.”

“Sounds sensible,” Chry nods, then frowns as he thinks of something. “Wait, how were you going to question them without the note?”

Miraak shrugs, “Shock them all until they told me who sought you out. This way is kinder. Wait here, I will be an hour at most.”

So Chrysanthe reluctantly watches him go, before busying himself with packing up the tent. He’s packed, ready to go and debating whether he should storm the temple already when Miraak emerges again, completely unharmed. That doesn’t stop him from hurrying over: “Are you alright? What happened?”

Miraak weaves a dismissive hand. “I am fine. My return was not as glorious as I wished but they all knelt to me, especially once I called on the Dragon Aspect. Their loyalty is assured.” He seems quite confident on this. “I explained that I would leave Solstheim and the majority of them should remain here and guard the temple, but not aggravate the Skaal.”

“And the traitor?”

“I found someone whose handwriting matched, yes. I will keep the note if it is no inconvenience to you. I can use it as a reference against any further written orders or works I come across.”

“That’s fine.” He’s not really sure if he should ask, but curiosity wins out. “…What did you do with the person?”

Miraak sighs. “What do you think I did with them? I had to set an example.”

That’s the answer he was expecting, though it still gives him a little twist in his stomach. Good that Miraak discovered the traitor immediately of course, but those are still _people_ underneath those cultist uniforms and dragon skull masks. Of course he could think that about every bandit and necromancer he comes across. Sometimes one must simply disregard the loss of human life. “Did you at least make it quick?”

“It was quicker than they deserved,” Miraak says, in the tone of someone who isn’t entirely satisfied with this, “And not as painful as I could have made it, if that pleases you.”

It doesn’t _please_ him, but if Miraak didn’t inflict agonising torture for the sake of revenge that’s at least some measure of mercy. A very very small measure, but a measure nonetheless. “Well, I appreciate your lenience.” Not that it’s really his place to tell Miraak what he can and can’t do with his cult; his cultists signed up presumably of their own free will, and understood the ramifications of serving a powerful but tempestuous master.

Miraak merely grumbles in response, but Chrysanthe suspects that positive reinforcement might be the way to go.

-

With the cult sorted out for now, it only remains to actually leave. Chrysanthe makes plans to head for Raven Rock, which is not exactly _close_.

“Will you be able to walk that far? Perhaps if we take plenty of breaks,” he eyes Miraak’s still-injured form dubiously. “I don’t have another way of getting there apart from walking. Horses can’t cross the ash wastes.”

“Should have brought a silt-strider,” Teldryn comments idly.

“Well there is one on Solstheim, it’s just in retirement,” Chrysanthe muses. “I wonder if the handler would let me borrow it…”

Miraak tilts his head. “The purpose of going to Raven Rock is to catch a ship back to the mainland?” Chry nods at this. “Could we not simply fly to Skyrim?”

“Fly-” his eyes widen. “You can still call your dragons? They’re not trapped in Apocrypha?”

“They fled it when I did. Dragons can pass through planes easier than mere mortals can,” Miraak explains, confirming Chry’s earlier theory. “If I call them they will answer, and we can fly straight from here to wherever you wish.”

Teldryn shifts uncomfortably, “Not… sure I want all of us crowded on a dragon’s back…”

“I have three dragons. Plenty for everyone,” Miraak brags, because that’s definitely what that is.

“Oooor to ride a dragon on my own…” Teldryn sighs. “Do you mind if I just take the ship, boss? I hate ships, but not as much as I hate flying, I have just discovered.”

“I will admit I am also a teensy-weensy little bit totally utterly terrified at the thought of riding a dragon,” Lucien confesses. “Also it doesn’t sound like you plan to come back to Solstheim… ever, really? I’ll go to the mainland with you but I need to see to Dumzbthar first, make sure he can manage without me long-term.” It takes Chry a second to realise Lucien means the person Dumzbthar, not the place Dumzbthar. Well, they are sort of one and the same. “So I need at least another week. How about Teldryn and I stay, see to any last business, then catch the boat and meet up with you? Any sign of Hermaeus Mora’s lot and we’ll cut straight to the ‘fleeing Solstheim’ part.”

“That works.” It gives Miraak some time to recover from his injuries as well. And with just Chrysanthe for company, which is useful. They have a lot to talk about away from listening ears.

Also… more than talk.

He’s not going to mention that bit out loud though. “I’ll go to my home in Falkreath. Can your dragon take us there, Miraak? It’s in south-central Skyrim so it’s a long journey.”

“We will have to stop on the way over, but otherwise this will be fine. I will take Sahrotaar.” Sahrotaar appears to be the favourite of Miraak’s three dragons, the most often called upon. He wonders why that is, he’ll have to ask later. “One of the more northern cities would suffice for a rest. Windhelm perhaps?”

Chrysanthe does _not_ want to park a dragon outside Windhelm. He’s 90% Ulfric Stormcloak would take that as a declaration of war. “No no, not Windhelm. Actually any city will attack a dragon on sight. Could we go somewhere more remote?”

“Anywhere you choose, but I will not be able to help you set up camp,” Miraak reminds him.

That’s all agreed, so he steps back for Miraak to do his thing. He expects this to involve some sort of meditative communication, but what actually happens is that Miraak tips his head skywards and calls: “ **SAHROTAAR!** ” Chrysanthe’s eyes widen to realise it is not merely a shout but a Shout. He didn’t know dragons could be called in such a way, although to be fair, it’s not like there’s a better way of getting in touch with one from a distance. The words echo and echo and echo into the clouds, chased up with a sound resembling a rumble of distant thunder.

“Is that him answering you?” Chrysanthe asks, fascinated.

“Yes. He will need a short while to get here,” Miraak says – a little preening, to Chry’s ear.

So he says his goodbyes to Lucien and Teldryn, tests the dwemer resonant sphere which Lucien can use a sort of alarm system if he gets in trouble (not that Chrysanthe would be able to do much about it if he was; he tries not to fixate on this too much). He gives them some of the ridiculous number of spell scrolls he salvaged from Apocrypha, and some potions, and do they have enough food? And-

“Chry,” Lucien says at last, “I was very capable of keeping myself alive the last time you left me on my own.”

“I know, I’m just – nervous,” Chry mutters. “Teldryn-“

“We’ll stick together like glue, boss,” Teldryn waves an idle hand. “And if I die horribly to Hermaeus Mora you’ll be the first one I haunt, promise.”

He gives a fond smile, “You know I never really worry about you all that much?”

“Blatant favouritism, that,” is the dry response. “Where are we meeting up with you, boss, Falkreath?”

A good point actually. When he meets with Lucien and Teldryn again it’ll be to venture into Blackreach, and the dwemer ruin entry Septimus Signus told them of was- “We’re actually going to Alftand, which is near Winterhold. There’s not much sense in you going all the way from Windhelm to Falkreath only to practically double back. Why don’t you head straight for Winterhold? We can meet you there.”

Lucien rubs his chin, “The College? It’s a bit cosier than Winterhold itself.”

“If they’ll let Teldryn stay too.”

“Ahh, just summon your atronach Teldryn, that’ll impress them. It’s a very low barrier to entry.”

“If they let _you_ in I suppose it must have been.”

After a gentle squabble they both stick around to see the dragon arrive because frankly who wouldn’t. Sahrotaar soars from the clouds like a comet, smooth ice-blue scales glinting in the sunlight, seemingly no worse for wear at having been ejected from Apocrypha along with Miraak. He laps the perimeter of the temple once before coming to an earth-shaking land. Both Lucien and Teldryn (and Chrysanthe too really) are caught between watching in awe, and throwing themselves behind the nearest cover. Miraak is the only one who greets Sahrotaar with the complete confidence that he’s not about to be razed, arms folded calmly over his chest and head held high.

“Fascinating!” Lucien exclaims as Sahrotaar towers above them. He glances sidelong at Miraak. “Is he really… friendly?”

Miraak gives a darkly amused sound. “Not at all. But he will not harm you, if that is what you mean.” Turning back to the dovah he commands: “I require passage to southern Skyrim. You will take _Laat Dovahkiin_ as well. Two is not too much to carry.”

Sahrotaar looks between him and Chrysanthe curiously. “He is _grah-zeymahzin_ and not _hokoron_?”

“Yes. Now that I am free of Hermaeus Mora, there is no more need for us to fight,” Miraak confirms - doesn’t translate, but Chrysanthe can make a guess as to the meaning of the words.

A thoughtful rumble in response, but Sahrotaar merely says, “As you decree.”

Miraak climbs on with swift and practised ease, holds out a hand for Chrysanthe which is… not entirely necessary but more welcome than Chry would care to admit out loud. With a great deal less surety than his counterpart he settles in behind Miraak.

“You will probably want to hold on,” Miraak offers, with just enough lightness to it that Chrysanthe suspects he’s quite enjoying this.

…Despite this he does need something to hold on to, and Miraak is the only handhold readily available. So he loops his around Miraak’s waist by default, realises this will end quite badly when he inevitably clenches down on the ascent, and so tries settling higher up instead.

He absolutely does cling on for dear life, thankfully around Miraak’s chest instead of his abdomen, when Sahrotaar flaps powerful wings once, twice to get airborne. It’s definitely less terrifying this time with a second person there, and he watches in wonder as the figures of Teldryn and Lucien (coolly watching and unashamedly waving, respectively) get smaller and smaller beneath him along with the rest of the world. And then he is _flying._

-

They leave the island of Solstheim behind. There’s nothing but empty sky and drifting clouds around him, vast blue sea and rocky islands as small as pebbles below him. It is, in a word, beautiful.

It is also _absolutely freezing._

“Aren’t-t you c-cold at all?” he shivers against Miraak. His teeth are chattering so much he must make a conscious effort not to bite his tongue. This is easily as cold as he was when he hiked out on the glacier floes to find Septimus Signus.

“No,” says Miraak, quite smug at that, while Chrysanthe grumbles and curses his lack of foresight to wear a cloak. He partly blames this on Miraak not donning anything in preparation for cold weather, but apparently he doesn’t need it. Is this an atmoran thing? Atmorans are basically nords except even nordier, so he assumes they share the innate resistance to cold. “Stay closer to me, that will give you warmth.”

“I’m st-starting to think this flying plan had an ult-t-terior m-motive.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” is the airy reply.

Chrysanthe grumbles, but clings closer and buries his face in the warm folds of Miraak’s mantle to escape the chilling winds. The robes smell largely of the soap Teldryn used to scrub them clean, but there’s a distinctive _old book smell_ soaked into the fabric, a holdover from Apocrypha but not unpleasant per se. He associates that scent with Miraak rather than with his trips to Mora’s realm, and so it brings a feeling of comfort rather than danger.

Since he’s so busy inhaling, he’s surprised when Miraak takes one of Chrysanthe’s hands in his, rubbing some warmth into his icy fingers. Unsatisfied, he then guides the altmer’s hand _into_ his robes at the lapels, and against the thinnest underlayer as the only barrier between that and the bare skin of his chest. “Better?” he calls far too casually over his shoulder, while Chry splutters in response.

“I - ah - that’s - yes,” he settles on at last, thoroughly pink-cheeked. Well that has warmed him up, he supposes. Though Miraak is positively toasty under his robes, which elicits both another feeling of disgruntled jealousy from Chry because seriously, _how is he so warm_ , and gratitude that the warmth has been shared. All of this is secondary to his response at the sudden intimacy however, which is somewhere between embarrassed and quite pleased. Miraak is not at all shy about initiating anything with him, particularly when their only audience right now is a dragon who is more focused on flying. It often catches Chrysanthe by surprise, because he’s unused to anything romantic let alone advances that are so… forward. Though he would be lying to say he wasn’t flattered by it all.

He stays like that for a time, curled up against Miraak’s back and feeling the steady thump of his pulse. The flight is long, though he doesn’t find himself especially bored - much like being on a ship he finds he can cloud watch for hours, blissfully empty of thoughts. He watches as the afternoon sky slowly gives way to sunset, and the first glimmer of stars can be seen in the darkening sky.

Sahrotaar is still in flight. “Does he not need to sleep?” Chry asks.

“He will when we have landed,” Miraak concedes, “Though dragons do not sleep as such, they are loath to be so vulnerable. They more… perch.” A glance downwards. “We are not so far from the mainland now. Where should we stop?”

“Ah-” he looks down at the miniature world below them, trying to determine exactly where they are. Windhelm is ahead, and West lies Winterhold, he recognises the isolated fortress of the College. If he remembers rightly there’s several islands around that area that would serve them well enough. Generally he wants somewhere remote, where no-one will spot Sahrotaar and come to investigate. “Do you see that island chain over there, north of Winterhold?”

As they draw nearer still he spots what he remembers to be Skytemple Ruins - it’s not a full-fledged draugr tomb, or if it is most of it is inaccessible now, but it does have a place they can take shelter. So he directs Miraak, who directs Sahrotaar, and before he knows it the dragon lands there with a mighty thud that sprays snow everywhere. There are a few skeletons about but the dovah coats the area in frost breath almost lazily, and by the time the breath has cleared all that remains are scatterings of inert bones. No other enemies that he can see so he gingerly climbs off Sahrotaar’s neck and supports Miraak as he does the same.

Miraak also gives a cursory glance around for foes, before turning back to his servant: “Take rest, we will resume tomorrow morning. Let no-one approach us.”

Sahrotaar elects to, indeed, perch facing away from them on a great stone arch protruding from the snow, just enough height from the ground to suit a dovah’s preferences. Chrysanthe watches in interest as he wraps his wings around himself and tucks his serpentine head down, presumably to stave off the snowfall. He does not have many opportunities to observe dragons that aren’t trying to kill him; it’s strange to see animalistic, almost birdlike behaviour on a creature that is easily as smart as a human, if not more.

He is interrupted in his musings by the sound of rustling next to him, and turns to see Miraak pushing his hood back and the mask along with it to expose his face. He quirks a brow, “Is everything alri-”

Then Miraak closes the distance between them in two strides, takes Chrysanthe’s face in both hands, and kisses him.

His eyes briefly widen before slipping closed, and he finds himself leaning - almost falling - into it. Warm, mildly chapped lips on his own, and warmer hands on his cheeks, drawing him in closer. He dimly feels Miraak’s fingers tuck some of his loose hair back, then trace the shape of his elongated ear with a thumb, every touch searing. His own hands rest against Miraak’s chest and almost instinctively he idly slips one into his robes again. The heartbeat under his fingertips is faster than Miraak’s usual steady beat, the only betrayal of any nervousness in his otherwise faultlessly confident demeanour.

They break apart, but Chrysanthe is so lost in it that it takes him a few more seconds to regain his senses, eyes fluttering open again. He finds Miraak looking at him intently, much like he’d like to do it again, but waiting for Chry to say something first. It’s surprisingly difficult to organise his thoughts into words after that, but he does manage something soft and breathless: “What brought that on?”

He gets a huff of laughter. “Flight. Closeness. And because I have been waiting to do that for… a while.”

“Is that so?” Chry murmurs, his own heart thumping loudly in his chest - no doubt Miraak can feel that from where his palm half-rests against Chry’s neck. It’s a tender gesture - a touch possessive too. Miraak all over. Definitely not unwelcome. When the man leans in again Chry leans in too to brush their lips together-

A sudden gust of frigid wind, made all the colder by it being evening, blows between them both. It elicits a full body shiver from Chrysanthe and even Miraak flinches at it without the covering of his mask. It’s certainly enough to cool any building heat between them and so Chrysanthe flashes his counterpart a semi-apologetic smile and pulls away. “Let’s, ah - set up camp, shall we?”

Miraak lets him go, albeit reluctantly. “I will check for any further danger.”

While the other starts a swift patrol around their little island Chrysanthe opens the door to Skytemple Ruins, which is to say a small chamber that is still accessible. He’s been here before and evidently no-one has since - he finds only an empty draugr coffin and emptier treasure chest. The area is covered in dust and frost, but it provides better shelter against the elements than setting a tent up outside. So he assembles the tent and a small campfire (lit with fire breath, so much easier than fiddling with tinder), and when Miraak returns he shuts the meagre wooden door between them and the growing snowstorm outside.

Miraak, he has found, does a very good impression of being perfectly healthy when he’s standing upright, but the game is up as soon as he has to bend at the waist at all. Going from standing to sitting and vice versa takes some serious effort, so while Chry might normally hang around the fire to talk before heading into the tent for sleep, he figures the sooner he can get Miraak on a bedroll the better.

“I hate this,” Miraak mutters after a ten minute ordeal to go from on his feet to on his backside.

Chry gives him an apologetic smile, even though it’s not really anything he’s apologising for. “That’s what happens when you get half-way disembowelled I’m afraid. How do you feel otherwise? Anything else hurting?”

“I am just…” he gestures futilely. “Tired. Annoyingly. I haven’t done enough today to warrant being as drained as I am.”

“You spoke with your cult face to face for the first time, killed a cultist, confronted the Skaal, called a dragon and then flew it to Skyrim,” Chry points out wryly. “Also it’s normal to be tired when you’re hurt. And when you haven’t eaten much. Speaking of which, food would be a good idea…”

So he warms up leftover ash yam stew for Miraak, horker loaf for him. He has a potion of well-being he’d quite like his injured counterpart to drink but potions make _Chrysanthe_ feel queasy so he assumes he’s not going to have any luck there until Miraak is of a less delicate disposition. So long as he can get him to eat something; Miraak doesn’t seem to have a good handle on when he actually needs food, having spent so long in Apocrypha that he’s quite simply forgotten what hunger feels like. He has to wonder how Miraak’s glorious return would have gone if he really _had_ killed Chry and used the power gained to escape by himself. That would’ve meant no injury to contend with of course, but he does have to wonder if the almighty first Dragonborn might have passed out from a lack of food he didn’t know he needed.

At least he’s a little more mobile than he was this morning. Once they’ve eaten and settled in for the night he’s able to divest the armoured parts of his robes without help, watching thoughtfully as Chrysanthe also eases himself out of his cuirass. When Chry lays out the armour alongside his weapons Miraak’s eyes fall on the Rueful Axe, that glinting silver blade carved like twin wolf heads, and he makes an inquisitive noise. “That weapon. You used this to hurt Hermaeus Mora.”

Chrysanthe blinks at him. “I’m surprised you remember. You were busy being impaled at the time.”

“Difficult to miss Mora screeching,” Miraak says with an undercurrent of satisfaction. “Not many weapons can harm a daedric prince. Where did you get it?”

“From another daedric prince. Clavicus Vile.”

Miraak actually looks surprised, and leans forward - stopping short with a wince, but continuing: “You _bargained_ for it? What did Clavicus Vile ask in exchange for this?”

“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t specifically approach him and ask for a weapon to hurt Mora,” Chry hastens to explain. “He asked me to fetch the axe for him and then when I had he asked if I wanted to keep it. I promise it was a very no-strings-attached sort of deal, or I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Clavicus’ deals almost always have strings attached,” Miraak points out, not unreasonably. “He must have wanted something in return. What was it?”

Chrysanthe falls silent then, biting his lip. He _does_ think the deal was no-strings-attached, save for that one Barbas-shaped string, which Chrysanthe… cut. But a part of him doesn’t want to tell Miraak about that. After all, isn’t he supposed to be the _good_ Dragonborn? The moral compass, the one who scorns daedra and dark deals, the example for Miraak to live up to? But here he is, with this tarnish to his halo. It’s easier if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Unfortunately a lack of answer is an answer all in itself. Concern flits across Miraak’s eyes, and he reaches across the gap between them to take one of Chrysanthe’s fidgeting hands. “ _Laat_ , you must tell me what it is. You have freed me from the servitude of one daedra, if I must do the same for you-”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Chrysanthe sighs at last. “I’m not in servitude. It was - do you know Barbas? The hound, Clavicus’ counterpart.” When Miraak nods: “At the time Clavicus and Barbas were separated due to a falling out, and Barbas had taken the form of a dog, as in an actual dog. He accompanied me when I retrieved the axe. When I returned, Clavicus offered it to me if I used it to slay Barbas first.”

Miraak exhales slowly, “And so you did.”

Chrysanthe gives a mirthless smile. “Under normal circumstances I never would have agreed, but I was getting desperate trying to find something that would let me stand up to Mora.” He bows his head, the confession heavy upon him. “But now and for the next, oh, few hundred years, Clavicus has all of Barbas’ power and none of his morality to tether him. I knowingly unleashed a daedric prince, and I brought harm to someone else purely for selfish reasons. That’s what I traded, really.”

Miraak is quiet for a moment, then squeezes Chrysanthe’s fingers. “It was worth it,” he declares.

But Chrysanthe knows the difference between one of Miraak’s declarations, and one of his questions disguised as one. “It _was_ worth it,” he repeats softly. “But I am in the odd position of being… ashamed of my actions, even though I don’t regret them. Even though I would take that deal all over again. I was reluctant to tell you because it makes me a hypocrite; I ask you to be kinder to people, but I have done unkind things as well.”

“One unkind thing. Not much of a hypocrite.”

“There have been other times.” Such as, say, when he helped a group of bloodthirsty forsworn out of Cidhna Mine so he too could be free, then watched helplessly as they slaughtered their way through Markarth. But at the time working with them was his only means of escape, and he wouldn’t call the desire not to rot in a jail cell for a crime he didn’t commit _selfish_. His desire to see Mora defied and Miraak freed however, is one that ties in directly with his own needs and wants. “I’m not perfect, is my point. I hope it doesn’t make you think less of me.”

“More, if anything.”

He looks up, “More?”

“I prefer you when you are not on a pedestal,” is the succinct answer. Miraak gestures to the Rueful Axe, “And besides, you traded one direct death - and not of an innocent but of a daedra, who are never innocent - in exchange for a weapon that freed us both from Hermaeus Mora’s grasp. Without signing yourself into another indentured servitude in the process. That is a good bargain, considering.”

“So long as Clavicus Vile doesn’t turn up on my deathbed and whisk me away I suppose,” Chrysanthe half-jokes.

Miraak chuckles lowly, “I hear the Fields of Regret are nicer than Apocrypha.”

“With a name like that? I’m not so sure.”

There’s a lull then, and Miraak looks down at their joined hands - his left to Chry’s right, of course. He tips his head, then pulls on Chrysanthe, tugging him over. “Come here.”

“Come where?” Chrysanthe says, even though he’s already shifting to move forwards, “There’s nowhere to go but your lap.”

“Exactly,” The other murmurs, still tugging. He gets more insistent the closer Chry gets, until Chry must catch himself with his free hand before he tumbles straight into the other man, which absolutely would have hurt Miraak more than it would have hurt him. His yelp of surprise is swallowed up by lips pressed to his once more, and he quite quickly goes from confused and concerned to confused and _very distracted_. So distracted, in fact, that it’s only when they finally part that he realises he is sitting firmly in Miraak’s lap, and Miraak has wrapped his arms around Chry’s waist so he can’t easily get _off_ his lap either.

Chrysanthe looks at this and sighs, though it’s of fond exasperation rather than annoyance. “This is where you wanted me, is it?”

Miraak’s chief response to this is to lean in and kiss him chastely again, which is admittedly a good way to get Chrysanthe to stop talking. When he draws back he speaks in that low, husky tone that always makes Chry’s heart skip a beat: “Indulge me. I have been waiting to get my hands on you for a long time.”

“A-ah, well…” his cheeks warm a little at that, but, well. Fortune favours the bold. “Now that you have me, what will you do with me?”

Miraak looks rather pleased at that response, and slides his fingers back around the curve of Chrysanthe’s waist slowly and deliberately. By the time he’s circled the altmer’s hips Chry has goosebumps along his limbs, and it gets tenfold worse when that devious hand slips draws downwards to trail along his outer thigh. It’s a light touch but, like many things Miraak, there’s nothing subtle about it.

“I can think of a few things,” Miraak says… _purrs_ , that is definitely a purr. Then he scowls a little and adds: “And I am too injured to do any of them. But if I touch you… this would satisfy me. For now.”

Not that Chrysanthe has any particular flirting experience, but he’s not really come across anyone who broaches the subject of… anything physical… quite as directly as Miraak does. He’s still trying to work out if it’s a Miraak thing or just another atmoran thing, since they _are_ the people who came before nords, and nords will literally marry someone if they’re wearing the right amulet. They move fast, that’s all he’s saying. Maybe atmorans move even faster. For need of a response he tries voicing his own thoughts, but quickly turns into an awkward mess: “Well I’ll still be here when, uh, um…” he gestures pointlessly and trails off, flustered.

Miraak gives him a look that’s somewhere between fond and amused at his expense. “You are shy. You do want this too, yes?”

“Yes,” he says at once because that bit is very true. He basically has no idea what to do with himself but that doesn’t mean he’s reluctant or indecisive. But then he thinks of something: “I do have some caveats.”

Miraak’s expression morphs into something suspicious. “Such as?”

“You need a better name to call me by,” Chry says primly, “I can’t have you passionately shouting ‘Dragonborn’, it’ll ruin the mood.”

Miraak actually laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Bold of you to assume I will be shouting anything at all,” he manages eventually.

“My point still stands. Can you not just call me Chrysanthe like everyone else?”

Miraak just tuts at him. “No.”

So blunt. He sighs. “Any Dovahzul terms of endearment, then?”

“Endearment is generally a foreign concept among dov,” Miraak returns, but does look thoughtful. “There is precious, treasure and so on but most have connotations of ‘a thing that I own’. You do not want this, I assume.” A pause. “I suppose I might call you _Silgron._ ”

“ _Silgron_ ,” Chrysanthe repeats, thoughtful. He doesn’t speak Dovahzul but he’s picked up the odd word here and there. “ _Sil_ is… soul? What’s _gron_?”

“So you do know a few words. _Gron_ is bond. As in link, not as in servitude.” Miraak’s fingers rub small circles into the small of Chrysanthe’s back. It’s an intimate gesture - obviously it is, Chry is currently perched on Miraak’s lap, but even so. The other Dragonborn’s voice drops low and soft in a way Chry rarely hears from him. “You are my soul-bond, whose fate is linked in with mine. So I can call you that, but perhaps other words as well. I cannot settle on a name for you, I only know that the one you currently wear is not the one you should have.”

“Ever enigmatic.” He still doesn’t really get why Miraak is so hung up on his name but he’s unbudging on the issue, so it’s a quirk Chry just has to accept. “ _Silgron_ is nice. I like the meaning. That means you’re my _silgron_ too, though?”

“I am,” the other says quietly, in a way that makes something in Chrysanthe’s chest flutter. “To digress. You said caveats, plural. What else do you desire?”

“Actually, my next caveat is…” he glances around their settings. They’ve made a nice den of the room, the campfire painting the walls in orange, kicking out just enough heat to stave off the whistling winds from outside. But all told it _is_ still a tomb. “To go no further than this, for tonight? You’re injured, we’re both tired, and there’s a draugr coffin right over there.”

“A fair point,” Miraak hums, slipping the hand on Chrysanthe’s thigh back to a chaster position on his back, to join the other hand still lingering there. “Stay like this with me, then, until sleep. During sleep. And when I wake up-” he inhales sharply, wraps his arms firmly around Chrysanthe and squeezes, pulls him in close. It’s something of a bear-hug, one that makes Chry wheeze a little, but before he can comment Miraak continues: “When I wake you will still be here. You will. Yes?”

He pats Miraak gingerly. “Yes, I will.” He hesitates, but he does feel like he needs to say something, so broaches the topic gently: “It’s real, Miraak. Not a dream, I promise.”

“I know,” the man mutters, but the fact that he doesn’t scoff suggests that Chry’s observation is the truth of it, or at least something close. “I do not question what is real and what is not. In Apocrypha, that is a good way to go mad. But still, to finally have what I wanted after all this time, it feels… I do not know. Like I will blink and be back where I was. This uncertainty is beneath me.”

“You’re not infallible,” Chry reminds him quietly. “Uncertainty is to be expected, but I’m here for you.”

“ _Hi nis filok_ ,” Miraak rasps in return. Chry doesn’t know the meaning of the words, but something about the urgent tone speaks for itself. Miraak offers what he assumes is half a translation: “Stay with me always. Stay.”

“I will.” He thinks he could say it a hundred more times and Miraak still wouldn’t be sure. But that’s fine, Chrysanthe has a lot of patience, especially when it comes to Miraak. Even now, when he meets Miraak’s gaze he finds himself calm rather than worried by the fierceness he finds there. There is a little part of him that whispers _and you must stay with me too._

He spends the rest of the night being clung to, and he is nothing but content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “You are _grah-zeymahzin_ and not _hokoron_ now?” - As you may have guessed it’s ‘allies’ and ‘enemies’, respectively.  
>  _Silgron_ \- exactly as Miraak translated it, but _gron_ has specific connotations of linked spirits/fates. I couldn’t find a decent translation for ‘soulmate’ but it’s close enough.  
>  _Hi nis filok_ \- literally ‘you cannot escape’ but used in the sense of ‘you can’t leave me’. A bit aggressive, because Miraak is like that.
> 
> -
> 
> The romance is a taking a turn for the co-dependent because I don’t think it’s a stretch to say Miraak has a… tenuous grip on his sanity despite his usually confident demeanour. Chrysanthe is quite happy to be the pillar Miraak leans on, and in my head a bit of the dragon-soul wanting to be the strongest thing in the room plays into it. It’s just, Chrysanthe has a different picture of what ‘strong’ looks like than Miraak does (which is just as well, really, or they’d clash a lot more).
> 
> As a side note Clavicus Vile’s realm, aka the The Fields of Regret, is in fact rather nice as planes of Oblivion go.


	15. Chapter 15

The next day they are up, he wrangles Miraak into eating something, Miraak grumbles about what an inconvenience having to stop and eat so often is, and they step outside into the frigid morning air. The snowfall stopped at some point during the night, although not before re-blanketing everything in fluffy white once more. He watches Sahrotaar shake a not-insignificant amount of snow off his wings, though he seems largely unperturbed by the cold.

Skytemple Ruins has a perfect view of the College, sat high and imposing on its lone cliff ever since the land all around it was lost to the sea. It’s a very striking building, and Miraak tilts his head thoughtfully at it. “What is that?”

“That’s the Mages’ College of Winterhold,” Chry tells him. “It’s actually where I learned how to talk to you with telepathy. And sort of… stopped the world from exploding. Long story.” Miraak gives him a glance at that, but then turns his head back to the tower curiously. “Lucien and Teldryn plan to meet us there in about a week so we can go inside then if you’d like. Though they do have a big library, as a warning.” _Do you know how much I hate books, imprisoned by them as I am?_ Miraak had once said to him, so he assumes Miraak doesn’t like libraries much either.

Going by Miraak’s disgruntled noise, his assumption is correct. “I will avoid it. But a look inside would be interesting.”

That aside, they’re soon in flight once again. Now wiser to the frigid temperatures of high altitudes he wraps himself in every cloak and blanket he’s carrying, which is not his most dignified look, but at least he’s not freezing. He does still cling to Miraak because more warmth is always welcome, but also because he doesn’t have the best handle on this dragon flying business yet. Miraak, he would wager, also quite likes being clung to.

Watching the world go by in miniature is fascinating. The scattered remains of Winterhold, the frosted stretch of the Pale giving way to the copper-hued plains of Whiterun. Over the city itself, high up enough not to draw arrow-fire from the guards, though he wonders if the silhouette of a dragon among the clouds will still alarm anyone who spots it. The territories of Whiterun become the territories of Falkreath, its great sprawling pine forests and crumbling forts.

Before they reach Falkreath proper he spots the titular lake of Lakeview Manor, and nudges Miraak. “Land down there, by that lake?”

“Is it far?” Miraak asks, once they’ve landed, to which Chry shakes his head. He turns to Sahrotaar next. “Then you can stay by the lake. I will call if I have need of you.”

“ _Pruzah,_ ” the dovah rumbles in response and then, much against Chry’s expectations, starts wading into the water itself, sinking under the surface.

“Oh, he’s a _swimming_ dragon,” Chry realises aloud, thinking of Sahrotaar’s smooth scales and the webbed fins along his neck, compared to the jagged bodies of most other dovah. “I will say that lake has slaughterfish in it.”

Miraak only snorts. “Not for much longer, it doesn’t.”

Chry smiles a little at that. “Is he your favourite? He seems to be.”

“I used to serve all the dragons you have seen, until I made them serve me instead,” Miraak tells him. “Krelzikov and Ruzikrel are little better than pet dogs, but Sahrotaar is… more of a companion. I tried to keep his mind intact in Apocrypha. This is to repay the limited kindness he showed me, when he was my master.”

“He was kind to you?”

“Limited I said. He wasn’t _that_ kind,” Miraak points out. “But he was… hm, it requires explanation. He is a serpentine dragon, which back then were scorned for their softer scales, and because they would rather inhabit a lake than a mountain,” he gestures out to the lake Sahrotaar is currently wading into. “Sahrotaar did well because he was strong and cunning. But he was in the rare position of having a measure of humility as well, so I found him more palatable than the others. He is still a _dovah_ , though. Do not forget that.”

Chrysanthe nods sombrely. They watch as Sahrotaar submerges completely, and the lake returns to its glassy stillness. There’s a _dragon_ under there. He’s never going lake-boating again.

Leaving the now dragon-lair of a lake behind he leads Miraak towards the cottage nestled between the trees. Their flight took up most of the day; it’s now the golden light of a summer afternoon, bathing everything in warm hues. Songbirds in chorused serenade to the forest, trees creaking in the wind. Twigs snap underfoot but after a moment he realises he can only hear his own footsteps. He turns back at once, and sees that Miraak stopped in his tracks a few paces ago. He is in fact stood very still. “Is something wrong? Miraak?”

“…I am fine,” is the response, in the very even tones of someone who is deliberately controlling their voice. “It is – I had forgotten. What it was like.”

“Ah,” Chry says very gently. “Well, why don’t we stay out here for a while? There’s a good log to sit on over there.”

So they stay and sit and Miraak is very quiet. What with his mask in place he appears to just be staring off into the distance, but Chrysanthe wonders if underneath it his eyes are roaming everywhere, soaking in every little detail, the shape of every leaf. His hands are held in his lap, tightly clenched despite an otherwise relaxed posture. Chry leans over and drapes one of his on top, and keeps it there until the tense fist under his fingers slowly unfurls.

It’s a good five minutes before the man speaks, his voice a subdued murmur: “There is so much - green. You would think I would hate the colour after Apocrypha, but…”

Chry hums. “Apocrypha is more of a sickly green. It always hurt my eyes to look at it.”

“It hurts to look at this,” Miraak admits, “Our flight over was easier on me. Just blue, featureless. There is so much here to see.”

“You’ll get used to it again,” Chry assures him. “Once you’re recovered we’ll go travelling. You’ll be fed up of forests before long I promise you.”

Miraak makes a sound, not quite a laugh, but with a note of mirth to it. “Who could tire of this?”

“Someone who hasn’t spent four thousand years surrounded by beige parchment. I will say though, I think Falkreath has some of the nicest forests in Skyrim. There’s a reason I chose to settle here. Well, sort of settle.” He squeezes his fingers against Miraak’s knuckles gently. “Ready to see the house, or do you want to stay out here longer?”

Miraak exhales. “Let us move. I can come outside again later. Or any time,” he adds, still with that lingering note of disbelief.

Lots of trips outside, Chrysanthe internally promises. But it’s been a long journey and he could do with a rest in an actual bed, so he stands and coaxes Miraak with him. Keeps hold of his hand for the rest of the shallow ascent up the hill. They pass the gently buzzing apiary first – he should have honey to collect by now but he’ll check it later when he’s dressed to be more sting-proof. Up to the little house, which appears undisturbed in his absence. “Here it is.”

“This is your home?” the man tilts his head. Chry wonders if he expected more, or if he expected anything at all. He doesn’t sound disappointed, just intrigued. “And it is… safe?”

“Yes. Well, as safe as it gets in Skyrim,” he concedes. “I get the odd bandit group sniffing around for easy pickings. Oh and there’s a shrine nearby – we passed it on the way – that necromancers really like for some reason. But aside from that, we’re safe here.”

“It may not stay that way. Mora may attack it,” Miraak warns.

Chrysanthe shrugs. “He’ll have to learn about it first. This was an empty patch of land when I bought it, and as far as most people know it still is.”

A curious sound. “You had this house built just for you?”

“I’ll do you one better, I built it myself.”

 _That_ gives his counterpart pause. “Yourself?”

“Mm-hmm.” He’s not really one for bragging but he is quite proud of Lakeview Manor. Or Lakeview Cottage, it’s only a little house, but it is _his_ in its entirety. He laid the foundations, he raised the walls, he fitted the doors and windows. “I wanted a house that only me and my closest friends knew about. So, I did everything myself.”

“I see,” Miraak murmurs. It’s not really in his nature to say _I’m impressed_ or _good work_ or anything, but Chrysanthe likes to think there’s appreciation in his tone. Of course, his house isn’t quite on par with Miraak’s temple. Opening the front door, the one-room domicile consists entirely of a double bed, a firepit, a table and a few cupboards and barrels – but it is home.

He winces a bit at the layer of dust that’s accumulated in his absence and sets about opening some windows to let the fresh air in. “Sorry about the mess, no-one’s been here in a while. I don’t think I have much in the way of food…” he checks some of the storage barrels, finds a bit of salted meat and cheese he’s dubious about eating. “Mmn, thought so. Do you think you’re up to a walk to Falkreath? It’s not far, maybe thirty minutes?”

-

Falkreath sees him restocked on food and general supplies, he sells some of the things he acquired in Solstheim, and he picks up some nice furs because he really ought to invest in a warmer cloak. Chrysanthe tells the other about the too-large graveyard and the quirky town tradition for morbid names like Grave Concoctions. He suspects Miraak isn’t overly interested in this sort of trivia, but he doesn’t interrupt at least.

Out of curiosity he asks how it compares with the settlements of Miraak’s day, the merethic era, and the gist seems to be that most settlements were about this size and anything bigger – like Bromjunaar, now known as Labyrinthian – was something of a marvel. The buildings are nicer now. The population back then was almost entirely atmorans, the only elves around Skyrim back then were snow elves that were driven out. Beast-races were practically unheard of, not that there are many of those in Falkreath anyway.

Miraak himself – towering, dark robes, _mask_ – gets a lot of stares from the locals. Chrysanthe might feel bad for him but Miraak seems completely unperturbed by the attention, and in fact Chry suspects he secretly likes it, so he makes no comment.

No-one they pass by makes any comment either, too intimidated by Miraak’s stature. Valga, proprietor of Dead Man’s Drink is the first to ask when he’s putting in a large order of food, and Miraak is lingering in the background: “Who’s your new friend?”

“His name is Miraak. He’s-” _first of the dragonborn, greatest of the dragon priests, traitor to the dragon cult, owns three dragons._ “-Someone I’m travelling with.” Grandiose introductions can perhaps wait. Until a dragon happens to attack Falkreath, perhaps.

“Interesting choice of attire,” she comments, but is evidently not feeling brave enough to say more. Chrysanthe can’t blame her; he’s accustomed to Miraak’s presence but the man projects a general… aura of menace to everyone else. “Give me five minutes to package all this up. You want a drink while you wait?”

He politely declines and instead waits just outside the tavern with his scary friend. They watch the world go by in companionable peace when Miraak nudges him.

“That man there with the blond hair, who is he?” he murmurs. “We have passed him more than once. He has glared at you every time he laid eyes on you today.”

“Huh?” Chrysanthe looks around, sees an all too familiar scowling face of his least favourite Falkreath resident. “Oh, that’s Bolund, Solaf’s brother. He’s a former Stormcloak, that’s all.” Miraak makes a further querying noise at this, and Chry remembers that the civil war, being recent history as opposed to ancient, is news to Miraak. “One of the sides in Skyrim’s civil war going on right now. Most Stormcloaks don’t like elves, high elves especially. Solaf is ex-Stormcloak too if I recall, he’s just nicer.”

Miraak makes a sharp _tch_ sound. “You are Dragonborn, he should not look at you like that. I could correct him.”

“Ah-ah,” he places a hand on Miraak’s shoulder before the man can march off to defend his honour. “I’ve no interest in starting a fight. He glares but that’s all he does, and his brother is perfectly civil to me.”

“You bring his brother quite a lot of valuables.”

“And he pays me a very fair amount of coin for them,” Chrysanthe returns gently, fingers sliding down to curl around Miraak’s bicep. “No fighting. If he raises a hand then by all means Miraak, but he’s allowed to squint at me all he wants. This is not the last nord you’ll see who doesn’t like the look of me and you can’t go fighting all of them.”

“I _could_ ,” Miraak returns easily, “But very well.”

-

They walk back, laden with goods. Chrysanthe rather wishes he had a horse but alas, he left it in Windhelm. That’s fine, Teldryn will ride it to Winterhold for him. He supposes he and Miraak will fly back to Winterhold when the time comes for them all to meet up, but he can’t travel everywhere by dragon, so he ought to acquire two more horses at some point…

He’s so lost in his thoughts of logistics that it takes him until they’re back at Lakeview to realise that Miraak’s breathing is laboured, and when they’re indoors and he sits on the bed, it’s more of a slump. Initial denial that there’s anything wrong, and after persistent questioning he admits that he’s in pain.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Chrysanthe sighs, checking his wound and funnelling some restoration magic into him. “I won’t know there’s something wrong if you won’t tell me.”

Miraak just huffs. “I don’t want to be treated as though I am fragile.”

“You _are_ fragile,” he retorts, exasperated. “Do you remember how you felt when you saw me half burned to death that one time? I fought some fire mages, then a fire dragon, and you told me off for overestimating myself.”

“This is hardly the same.”

“It’s exactly the same. You’re a mere mortal like the rest of us now, don’t forget. You have to take better care of yourself, including pacing yourself when you need to.”

He gets a grumble, but otherwise silence as he continues his healing, which he’s going to take as him winning this dispute. Though after a few minutes Miraak tilts his head and says, “We should speak telepathically.”

He quirks a brow, “We should? For what purpose?”

“When we spoke - when you were burned - it did not manifest in the telepathy,” Miraak reaches out and curls his fingers around Chrysanthe’s hand, which is currently hovering at his abdomen to ease the pain there. “So if I appeared to you there I would be able to…” those fingers slide up the altmer’s wrist. It’s an innocuous gesture, but he might as well have sent a shock up Chrysanthe’s arm for the way his hairs stand on end and breath catches in his throat. “ _Touch_. Without being limited by injury.”

 _Oh_.

“That’s, uh, that is-” he clears his throat, “Not really what I wanted you to take away from this lesson to be more careful, if I’m being honest.”

Miraak elects not to answer that, instead leaning in a little, voice dropping a few octaves, “Do you think that would work?”

It’s deeply annoying, how Miraak can reduce him to a fluster with a slight change in his voice. “Ah, well, you’d - you’d be limited by other things. We can’t do a lot in telepathy either. In terms of - physical contact and such, if you remember.”

“We have overcome some of those barriers before,” Miraak points out, “And it may be even easier to do so now that we are on the same plane. I would like to… test it.” His fingers slip further upwards, to Chry’s elbow, curling possessively, “You do want to, I know you do. We could do so much, without any injury to hold me back.”

“I-” Miraak’s voice is like silk, or honey, or any other number of lovely things. It’s also utterly confident and tinged with something like… victory? Wait. Waaaait. “I’m fairly sure I was in the middle of telling you off,” Chrysanthe frowns, having suddenly realised how far the conversation has slipped away from that. “Are you trying to seduce away from the subject? Is that what this is?”

There’s a pause, which speaks volumes of itself, really. “I would argue that I am succeeding.”

Chrysanthe tuts and flicks at the golden mask, which makes a satisfying little _ding!_ noise. “Nice try, but you can’t talk circles around me. Back on the subject of your mortality, please.”

-

He’s delivered his lecture, strong-armed Miraak into promising he’ll say something when he’s in pain. All but forgotten about he gets ready for sleep, laying on the bed facing the other - a new step towards intimacy, but they’re both still mostly-dressed. The blanket is tangled around their ankles, unneeded; it’s a warm summer night in sharp contrast to the freezing cold he woke up to this morning. Hard to believe he went from one end of Skyrim to the other in a single day, on the back of a dragon no less.

“It was a serious suggestion,” Miraak says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, “That we should speak telepathically.”

Chrysanthe raises an eyebrow at him, “And not just an attempt to distract me from your tendency to ignore injuries?”

Miraak sighs. “I am not ignoring them, it is just… frustrating. To be limited still, despite all of my efforts. You healed me, _I_ healed me, I consumed some of the dragon souls, I drank that awful potion of yours-”

“You threw it back up, I don’t think it did you much good.” Unfortunate, but as predicted. He picked up some spare potions of Well-Being from Grave Concoctions, he’ll try again when he thinks Miraak can keep them down.

“The point is that this is-” Miraak exhales, the sound a touch seething. “-Frustrating. I want to _do_ things. Before, you were able to rest your burns while acting freely in telepathy. I want to do the same, I want - I _want_ ,” he reaches out to snatch up Chrysanthe’s hands in his own, leaving the altmer wide-eyed - at the forwardness of the gesture, and the intensity of Miraak’s voice. “I meant what I said, before. I want to put my hands all over you. You want that too, don’t you?”

He swallows. Miraak’s pleading tone is tenfold more effective on him than his seductive one. “I do want to, it’s just…”

“What?” he breathes, “You are unsure. Why?”

It’s no use, he’s just going to have to come out and say it. “I’m a little… daunted, that’s all. It’s just, I haven’t done this before. Any of it. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

He can just about see Miraak’s eyes in the dark, black sclera reflecting the scarce light in the room. They go from confused and imploring, to a wide blink of realisation, to the narrowed expression of _heat_. Not an innocent expression certainly. “I will teach you, then. I had a lot of lovers.”

He feels compelled to point out: “ _Had_. Four thousand years ago.”

Miraak just shrugs, unperturbed. “I would wager intimacy has not changed much in that time.” His fingers curl and uncurl around Chrysanthe’s before pulling free, and coming to rest on the altmer’s waist instead. That gets a startled breath out of him, that summer night suddenly all the warmer. Not at all helped when Miraak makes a pleased, low-toned hum at his movement. “You are so responsive. Have you done anything at all?”

“I just said I haven’t,” Chrysanthe mumbles, feeling some mix between complimented and vulnerable. There’s a part of him - he’s going to assume it’s an innate high elf thing - that wants to be elegant and dignified, and he doesn’t think he’s much of either right now. He does wish he had a better handle on his reactions, even if Miraak obviously likes that he doesn’t.

“I meant,” Miraak murmurs, “With yourself, not just other people.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Uh. No. I… I haven’t.” He’s never really been pent up enough to bother. The closest he’s gotten to that state is after some of his talks with Miraak, and since those also tended to leave him conflicted, sometimes frightened, sometimes saddened, any heat faded fast. Outside of those times, he’s never really had stress to relieve when he spends his days fighting the world, and ends his days flopping onto his bedroll in exhaustion. Of course, he’s only just realised that maybe that’s a bit strange. Determined not to be the only one embarrassed here, he pointedly asks Miraak: “Did you, when you were in Apocrypha?”

Of course Miraak is not embarrassed at all. “When I was first trapped there. Though there are no bodily urges in Apocrypha - it was more of a habit, one that I lost quite quickly.” Perhaps realising that Chrysanthe asked that not out of curiosity but a need to be on a more equal footing, he makes a soft sound. “ _Nid paak._ You are shamed by your inexperience, but I find it pleasing.”

“Virginity has no value,” Chry points out gently.

“I disagree. The fact that I will be the first and last to show you intimacy has great value to me.”

 _And last_. Such confident statements. Not that he thinks Miraak is wrong, mind you. He’s tempted to ask if Miraak would desire him less if he had in fact taken others to bed, but it’s argument for the sake of argument, so he doesn’t bother. Also it’s probably a good thing that he doesn’t have any past lovers, he can see that ending… poorly, when dating a rather possessive dragonborn. Begrudgingly he finds that confidence attractive, though the fact that Miraak’s hand is currently tracing up and down his side might have more to do with it.

“It would mean, for example,” Miraak continues before Chrysanthe can say anything, “That I am the first to touch here,” and the arm still resting on the dip of Chrysanthe’s waist slips down to his hip, making him shiver. “Or here.” It slips down further, Miraak leaning in closer so he can reach, down to his thigh. The skin there is sensitive, even with the barrier of clothing in the way. Then it traces inwards, to between his legs. “Or _here_.”

“Ah-!” It’s just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, just enough to make him squirm. He’s thankful for the darkness, since he suspects his face is rosy red by this point. That flustered heat on his cheeks starts to spread to his ears and creep down his neck, but the rest of his blood is being called away elsewhere, so to speak. On reflex he reaches out himself, curls his fingers firmly around Miraak’s biceps - more to steady himself, to clamour back some vestige of control. He feels the muscles jump under his fingers, briefly worries that he gripped too bruisingly. But when he looks at Miraak’s face for a wince of pain he sees only that ravenous sort of desire he’s come to know so well, only this time it’s written across Miraak’s face instead of his thoughts. Oh so bruising grips are _good_ , are they?

“I barely touch you and you are already…” Miraak pulls his hand away from _there_ and touches his face instead, thumb sliding across Chry’s lips. Their eyes are locked, enthralled. “How am I to restrain myself around you, when you make noises like that?”

His lips quirk into a smile, “Should I try to stay silent, then?” he murmurs against that thumb.

“ _No_ ,” Miraak growls at once.

What happens then is that Miraak grabs him around the waist with the full intention of pulling Chrysanthe closer and, presumably, rolling on top of him to do as he likes.

He gets about a third into that motion and then stops with a very sharp hiss.

Chrysanthe flinches in sympathy, “Are you alright?”

There’s a rather moody sort of silence, and then- “Telepathy,” Miraak grumbles, “This is why I wanted the telepathy.” He looks up at Chrysanthe then, expression a little pained, a little hopeful. “Speak with me. You have to be the one to initiate it, I cannot. Do this for me, _silgron_.”

Unbidden, Quaranir’s words come to his mind: _Don’t let him touch you._

They’re a bit past that now, aren’t they? They’ve touched plenty in telepathy. It’s how he’s been able to get through to Miraak where words have failed, even.

Despite this, he’s reminded that before when Miraak was too much for him, Chrysanthe could just sever the connection and leave Miraak to stew awhile with the relative safety of a few planes of existence between them. Here if he severs the connection Miraak will still be there. And he’s… he doesn’t think Miraak would hurt him. Not intentionally. But he’s hungry for some manner of intimacy, and Miraak is at his most dangerous when he’s desperate.

“I need some restraint,” he tells Miraak firmly. “I’m new to all of this and I need you to be gentle with me. No pushing me around in the telepathy, yes?”

“Yes, fine,” Miraak says, a touch dismissive.

Chrysanthe pinches his shoulder. It’s a bit juvenile but It gets the point across. “Promise me restraint. Out loud.”

“I promise I will show restraint,” he sighs, a bit put-upon but less fervent than he was before. Chrysanthe is of the understanding that Miraak is something of a hurricane, one prone to getting entirely carried away and taking a turn for the destructive. There’s a part of him that likes this far more than he’d care to admit out loud, but sometimes he needs Miraak to calm down a bit.

He soothes the shoulder he’s just pinched. “Alright, let me get a magicka potion…”

-

It’s an odd sensation, contacting Miraak again via telepathy. It hasn’t been that long - he did it right before going to Apocrypha for the final time and that was… what, two days ago now? But it’s doubly strange when he _has_ Miraak in front of him and watching him with hungry expectation. When he closes his eyes, it’s hard to find the focus to reach out again, but he does manage it. Then the world fades away into a great black void and he reaches out. A gate-

 **I am here,** is echoed, which startles him. He expected a gap of at least a few seconds before Miraak came to him - was the swiftness because they are on the same plane now, or just Miraak’s sheer eagerness? Regardless the other dragonborn is there, materialising effortlessly in front of him. Unmasked for the first time ever in this setting, but Chry has always appeared wearing whatever he had on when he started the communication, so it must work both ways.

Miraak presses in close with his usual lack of patience. It’s at this point that Chry must usually fight to keep him at arm’s length but, well… they’re a little past that now. Even so, as Miraak’s hands stretch out to lay upon him they come up short, stopped by some invisible barrier, as though Chrysanthe were encased in glass.

 **Let me touch,** Miraak urges. **Open yourself to me. I want to touch.**

So Chrysanthe does open up, and gasps at the sheer _need_ that barrages his senses like a tidal wave to the side of a fortress. He’d thought there would be lessening of Miraak’s desire for touch now that he can do so whenever he pleases but no, it’s still there, and it’s still so sharp and borderline painful that it feels more like a gnawing hunger. _It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere_ , he gasps out, fuelled by the need to soothe that sensation. _I’m here, remember? You have me in - in the real world._ Not quite the phrase he wants to use, what happens in telepathy is as real as what happens outside of it, but they both know what he means.

 **Having you does not lessen my want for you,** Miraak bites out in response. Sharing their thoughts more freely strengthens their link enough that Miraak might grab Chrysanthe’s hand, palms pressed flush. He’s trying to do more, but he bleeds frustration at the effort it takes. **I thought it would be easier now. We are laying right next to each other.**

 _Telepathy, not - teleportation. As far as the spell is - concerned we could be on - opposite sides of the world,_ Chrysanthe replies, made breathless by the drain on his magicka, and the strength of Miraak’s feelings. Gods, that desire of his really hasn’t eased one bit. It might even be even stronger than it was when Miraak was in Apocrypha, if such a thing is possible. _Miraak, you promised me restraint._

 **…I did promise,** the man concedes, albeit with great reluctance. He leans back a little, no longer looming towards Chrysanthe quite so forcefully, and pries his hand back enough that only their fingertips are touching. It does help lessen the draining sensation, and Chry can just about feel the regenerative magicka potions he swigged earlier helping to replenish his lost stores.

 _That’s better,_ Chrysanthe sighs. He can feel a certain degree of despondency from his counterpart so he responds with reassurance, rubbing in small circles against the other’s fingertips. _This is just a limited form of communication. I think we already do more than telepathy normally allows. I always had the impression we weren’t supposed to be able to touch at all._

 **But we have touched more than this. We’ve linked fingers. You kissed me.** With that comes a sudden flash of memory, evidently strong enough to Miraak that it replays when he recounts it. He has a split second glimpse of himself leaning in and the sensation of cool metal against his mouth as his own memories become briefly tangled with Miraak’s. They both shiver. **And yet when I try I cannot return the gesture,** Miraak murmurs unsteadily, feeling oh so much like he would _like_ to.

 _I don’t have enough mastery over the spell to control it that easily. I can’t really tell what it will and won’t let us do,_ Chrysanthe returns, a little apologetically. _We can consistently touch hands at least. Like we did in Apocrypha, remember?_

**As though I could forget.**

An idea comes to him, then. He doesn’t really know if it will work, but… _Let me try something?_ Sensing his curiosity Miraak readily agrees, and Chrysanthe turns his hand so that Miraak’s fingers rest at the back of it, rather than pressed to the front. He then brings his own hand to his chest, urging Miraak to move with him. There’s a little resistance but it does work, and he ends up not with Miraak touching him, but resting his fingers over where Chrysanthe touches himself. _Do you want to try… guiding my hand?_

He’s somewhat flustered at the implications of this, though not half as much as he is when _Miraak_ realises the implications, and there’s a surge of heat so strong it’s like he’s been doused in hot water. **You are remarkably devious for someone so shy.**

 _Well as they say, it’s always the quiet ones,_ he returns, embarrassed but more than a little pleased as well. _So… where should I start?_

He’s momentarily paralysed by indecision - not his, Miraak’s, he soon realises. That tickles him more than it really ought to, and perhaps in response to his amusement Miraak growls, **Your mouth.**

…Which isn’t what he actually expected as a first choice given Miraak’s, ahem, impatient tendencies. But he obeys, lifts his hand to his face with Miraak’s trailing after him, and presses it to his lips. His fingers skirt back and forth, not entirely of his own volition - if he opens his mind enough he can feel what Miraak wants him to do without the man vocally commanding him, so he lets himself feel. Tracing his lips, as though Miraak himself were performing the action, and indeed the man watches everything with a burning sort of intensity.

He has to ask. _Why my mouth?_

 **It is the most important part of you,** Miraak says simply. **Of everyone, for that matter, though it is rarely lauded as such. So few comprehend the true gift of language. Dragons have a better appreciation for it.** He tilts his head, eyes firmly trained on Chrysanthe’s mouth as though semi-hypnotised. **And it is with this mouth that you bargained for this telepathy of yours. With which you conversed with me when you had no obligation to. With which you fooled Hermaeus Mora into thinking he had found another servant in you, and then spoke the words to free me instead. It was of course your mind and heart that bid you do this, but your mouth is what turned thoughts into action.**

Chrysanthe exhales in a shudder. He can feel the hot puff of breath on his own fingers as he does so. So does Miraak, given the way he shivers too. _You have such a way with words._

Miraak hums in agreement. **It is in my nature. In yours too, but you are less verbose than I.**

His fingers slide away from his mouth and across his cheek - again, not his own idea but one put in his mind by Miraak. He finds himself caressing his own cheekbones for a moment before swiftly sliding down to curl along his jaw instead. Of his own accord he tips his head back, baring his throat to afford Miraak a better view with a flash of vulnerability. He’s surprised at the surge of **want take mine** he gets in response to this, and the sudden _thump-thump-thump_ in his chest that belongs, he realises with wide eyes, to his counterpart, felt so strongly that his own heart is spurred into frantic beating as well.

_What was that? Are you alright?_

**Yes, it was just… ahh…** not often Miraak isn’t able to articulate himself. **We are both dragon-souls. Some of the things you do… bring it out in me. It is hard to describe.**

Chrysanthe doesn’t quite experience the same things the other dragonborn seems to. He’s fundamentally less in touch with that part of him - an effect of Miraak’s time in Apocrypha stripping much of his humanity. Chry recognises that this isn’t supposed to be a good thing, but a part of him does wish he knew the draconic side of himself as intimately as Miraak does, weird reactions to throat-baring and all.

Still, it’s evidently making it hard for Miraak to think straight, so he carefully tucks his head back down and pulls their hands further downwards, skirting across his collarbone, and the neckline of the simple tunic he wears for sleep. That seems to bring Miraak back to him, and the other bids that Chry trail across his own chest, rubbing into the sternum. Then Chry inhales softly as he dips lower, across his toned stomach, and lower, and…

 _Miraak,_ he says, or tries to say, but it comes out as more of a whimper. A surge of heat renewed in response, strong enough that it could knock Chrysanthe over. It’s almost enough to overwrite his hesitation, but not quite.

 **I know,** Miraak says soothingly in response. **This is new, you are unsure.** **But you do want it, I can feel it. Let me show you. I will give you everything if you will just let me.**

With those words, and the constant not-quite-vocal insistence of **lower, lower** that comes from Miraak’s desires bled through the link, Chry’s hands slip lower, across the front of his breeches. They linger on the buttons, and then Miraak leans in to rasp in his ear, **Undo them.**

Oh Divines. He’s never, he’s never… he wants to, he does want to, but it’s so tangled up in Miraak’s want that it’s hard to pull them apart. He exhales in a shudder but he does move, and the button slides smoothly under his fingertips as he slips it free.

 _The next one,_ it takes him a moment to realise that thought was his, not Miraak’s, but he has a surge of agreement in response. The next button fumbles loose under his fingers and he shudders at the sudden give in pressure against his confined hardness. Miraak’s fingers flex across his and guides his hand back up, to the waistband of his smallclothes. Prying it open, slipping inside the warm confines and against his bare skin, his own fingers doing the touching but Miraak is there too-

There is a sudden wave of dizziness, though he can’t tell if it’s the sign his magicka has run out or simply being overwhelmed. He sways forward, lands with a solid _thump_ against Miraak’s form, head tucked exhaustedly over one shoulder. Startles as he realises it was in fact solid contact, that the press of fabric under his chin is real, the warmth is _real-_

 ** _Yes,_** Miraak’s voice echoes in long-awaited triumph, and Chrysanthe gasps as Miraak’s fingers slip past his own and contact him, no barriers. Firm and frantic, as though he must touch as much as possible before the laws of telepathy reassert themselves. And now Miraak’s fingers are where Chrysanthe’s were, oh gods those are _Miraak’s fingers_ cupping and squeezing and stroking.

 _Ah-!_ He cries out, nerves singing sweetly at the stimulation. His own fingers scrabble uselessly at Miraak’s own, though not for him to stop, and at the mere thought of that a string of jumbled pleas come out as _don’t stop, please don’t stop._

 **Never, I will never,** is spoken back, a hoarse whisper, **You feel amazing. Overwhelmed. You really haven’t done this? I am the first, to make you feel this way?**

 _First, first, yes,_ he responds frantically, squirming under his hands. This is a new sensation - he’s certain he found physical pleasure before his memory loss, he’s a grown man, he _must_ have done. But he hasn’t since and so this is new. How can one little part of him feel so good? Tingling radiates outwards all the way to his extremities, the rest of his body slowly numbing, sensation shrinking to that one area, to his aching hardness and the clever fingers wrapped around it. _Only you-_

That earns him a hungry snap of possessiveness. Miraak’s free hand curls around Chrysanthe’s waist, able to hold now, and pulls him in closer, squeezes him tightly. **Only me,** he growls in Chry’s ear, satisfaction laced with threat.

Under any other circumstances he might be self-conscious at how little it takes to bring him to the edge, but any stirrings of embarrassment are swiftly smothered by the overwhelming _heat_ and _need_ and _yes_ that is shared between them both. Miraak’s hands are warm and rough and so good, and he wants Chrysanthe to such a ridiculous degree that he’s completely lost in it. He leans heavier into Miraak’s shoulder, shuddering, the coil of tension in his middle coiling tighter, tighter, tighter.

He’s out of magicka, a part of him realises, but he can’t stop now, he’s so _close_. He’s not even sure what he’s close to, just that he’s nearly there. His left hand yanks on the other’s robes as he pleads in his ear _Please Miraak a little more, just a little more-_

 **Yes, anything,** is the not entirely coherent reply, Miraak just as swept away as he is, **Everything anything is yours if you are mine, you are mine, you are _mine_.**

Oh _gods_.

The world goes white. Sharp buzzing in his ears, sensation of _flying soaring falling releasing catching owning mine mine mine_ -

-

He wakes with a _moan_ , the likes of which he can confidently proclaim he’s never made before, and he has the good sense to be mortified and clap his hands over his mouth to stifle it.

He then gasps in startlement when fingers abruptly curl around his wrist and pull his hand back away from his mouth. Glancing over he sees Miraak who is looking at him with - with _smolder_ , that’s what that expression is, and it’s so effective he even briefly forgets to be self-conscious. “Don’t silence yourself,” Miraak says with a voice that basically matches his expression, such a low and smooth and stupidly erotic purr that Chrysanthe’s body goes _oh are we going again?_ and he mentally, frantically curses himself and wills it to behave. He doesn’t have another moan for Miraak, not that this particularly seems to matter, as his silence is regarded with amusement. “ _Silgron_ , you can still speak yes?”

“Yes,” he says, except it’s more of a squeak, and he’s embarrassed all over again. The way Miraak is looking at him though, it’s hard to feel that way for long. He tries again to speak like a normal person this time: “Was that… did we really…?” He looks down at himself. He’s still dressed, but the buttons of his breeches are all undone. He can see the glimpse of smallclothes on display underneath it and… well he can’t see anything more than that, the light isn’t good enough, but it feels very… sticky. “Oh, we did. I did. Um. That’s. Oh.”

Miraak strokes his wrist fondly before letting him go. “There is something very pleasing about reducing you to speaking nonsense, it must be said.”

Chrysanthe jabs a finger at him, “I’d thump you if you weren’t injured.” He glances up and down Miraak’s form then. He doesn’t look worse for wear after their telepathy, but there is another pressing concern, albeit one he’s a bit too shy to really voice. He tries anyway. “Are you… I mean, did you… do you need me to do anything?”

Miraak almost imperceptibly shakes his head, “Taken care of.” Chry raises an eyebrow at that, and he admits, “It surprised me as much as it does you, trust me. Blame the telepathy.”

Oh. _Oh_.

The man stretches a little before settling down, “To discuss tomorrow. Come, sleep.”

Sleep does sound pretty good right about now.

He’s adrift almost before he knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Pruzah._ \- ‘Good’.  
>  _Nid paak._ \- ‘no shame’, or ‘don’t be ashamed’ for a more fluent translation.
> 
> -
> 
> Hey look, smut. I’m normally an advocate of explicit smut because if you’re going to write it you might as well go all out on the lurid descriptions, but that feels a bit… odd? For this story? So there will be sex scenes but I’m still playing around with the writing style.
> 
> As a side note if you feel like Miraak is being quite pushy the answer is yes he is. Chry is fortunately very willing, but my feeling is that Miraak has a tenuous relationship with boundaries and could easily steamroll a hesitant partner into doing whatever he wanted. I’m trying to strike a balance where Miraak is a very intense and (in his own way) caring partner, but can be inconsiderate and selfish at times. Be assured that Chry can Fus-Ro-Dah him any time if he wants out.
> 
> UPDATE: I've been meaning to draw my ink-stained version of Miraak for a while so here he is! https://99corentine.tumblr.com/post/621932467321995264/its-an-unmasked-miraak-can-you-tell-that-i-dont


	16. Chapter 16

He wakes to someone lightly shaking him.

His eyes blink open blearily, every limb lead-weighted. The price to pay for telepathy is tiredness; objectively he knew that when he agreed to speak with Miraak’s request last night, but he’d forgotten just how draining it felt. He remembers that when their… _conversation_ ended the room was still dark. Now it is bathed in morning light, so he’s achieved at least a few hours of sleep, but he’s still exhausted. He assumes his body would have happily slept a few more hours if not for being shaken awake.

This is by Miraak of course, who is sitting on the edge of the bed. That means he successfully got out of bed by himself which is something of an achievement. Unfortunately whatever satisfaction Chrysanthe might have felt at that is smothered by his weariness. His lethargy comes across, as the atmoran has a frown crossing his features, “You are slow to wake today.”

“Normal after telepathy,” he reminds the other. His voice is a little hoarse-sounding as well. It’s been worse before - his previous combative conversations saw him waking as though he’d been shouting for hours on end. They didn’t argue last night but it was similar levels of intensity, so he’s feeling similarly flattened.

“But I feel fine.”

“That’d be because I’m doing all the work.”

“Ah.” Miraak glances down at Chrysanthe; he sees those blackened eyes rove over him, lingering over his half-unbuttoned breeches. “You still enjoyed it, yes?”

Chry’s gaze flicks down there too, which is a great reminder of how his breeches came to be unbuttoned to begin with. His own fingers slipping them free in telepathy under Miraak’s guidance, that raspy voice murmuring **undo them** in his ear. He knows that when he’s communicating his physical body is perfectly still, so from an outsider’s perspective he supposes the buttons appeared to unfasten themselves. And then he, seemingly unprovoked, suddenly… “I did. I, um, you know.”

“Came,” Miraak adds helpfully, “Climaxed. Orgasmed. Ejacu-”

Chrysanthe throws one arm over his face, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and blindly thumps Miraak on the leg with the other one. “That’s quite enough, thank you.”

“So prudish.”

He cracks an eye open, stares balefully at his counterpart from under the crook of his arm, “I think you like my prudishness.”

“I adore it,” he answers at once. “Was it good? It felt good. I felt it just as you did.”

He’s somewhere between mortified and fascinated. The latter wins out and he lifts his arm off his face, “Last night you said you were, ah… taken care of, is that what you meant?”

“Empathetic climax,” Miraak says quite boldly, while Chrysanthe makes a squeaky sort of noise and immediately debates hiding behind his arm again. “Very interesting. Not as good as the real thing but still enjoyable. I fully intend to subject you to the same, of course.”

“Of course,” Chry says weakly.

Miraak tilts his head at him then. “ _Silgron_. Did you like it? It felt as though you did, but am I mistaken?”

“What? No no. You’re not mistaken, I mean,” Chry assures him. “It was overwhelming, but in a good way. I’m very tired today and I can’t do that too often but I did like it. You’re worried I didn’t?”

“I am not worried,” Miraak retorts, which Chry suspects is more of a reflexive response than an honest one. The last time Miraak shot down the notion he worried for Chrysanthe, he then gave him a big lecture about being more careful. “If you dislike something I wish to know about it, that is all.”

“I promise to tell you if I don’t like something.” He already knows that if Miraak ever got pushy with him, a firm no would be the way out of it, but it’s worth saying it out loud.

The trouble is-

_Argh._

He sort of likes it when Miraak is pushy, is the thing.

He’s not overly sure what that says about him as a person but whenever Miraak grabs him, pulls him around, crowds him up against a wall, or the multitude of other domineering things he does Chrysanthe is (obviously) intimidated but there’s always this little part of him that goes _yes more_. When Miraak touched him last night there was very little gentle about it, and that’s the bit that makes his knees weak.

But it’s really hard to admit that out loud, and he’s not even sure if he should. A part of him worries that if he tells Miraak he likes aggressiveness one day the other will take it too far. He’s not sure what _too far_ really means though, and the lack of clear definition is the whole problem. He can’t ask Miraak to toe a line when the line is vague and blurry.

He’s therefore quiet, and Miraak is none the wiser when he moves off the bed to wash and dress.

-

“On the telepathy,” Miraak muses later, “I could cast that spell with less difficulty than you. The aftereffects would not be as strong for me.”

Chrysanthe is still feeling the aftereffects. They’ve lazed the morning into afternoon and his grand achievement for today is going from lying in the bed to lying in the grass outside his house. This is evidently perturbing to Miraak who keeps asking if he’s alright. He’s definitely told Miraak about the drain of telepathy when explaining why they couldn’t speak every day, but he supposes Miraak thought it was more of an excuse. Chrysanthe’s lingering sleepiness today is more concrete proof.

Stretched out on the grass he casts an eye over to his counterpart. He’s masked, so only an impassive golden visage looks back at him. “The Psijics gave me the spell, but in such a way that I couldn’t teach it to anyone else.”

A sigh. “I thought as much, they’ve always been good at hiding their secrets. Perhaps if I approached them myself and asked for the knowledge…”

He makes a disagreeable sound, “I am _not_ telling Quaranir what I’ve been doing with the spell he taught me.”

“It would appal him,” Miraak says with the tone of someone who would thoroughly enjoy such an outcome. “I doubt they would speak with me. But perhaps if I devise a magicka-sharing ritual it would lessen the cost to you, and then…”

He reaches out, fingers brushing against the other man’s knee. Miraak always puts himself where Chrysanthe is within arm’s reach, but handily that works both ways. “Don’t get so hung up on telepathy. You have me here and now.”

“I know, but - I enjoyed not being limited by injury. And the mental link is… pleasant.”

That wording choice seems a little odd to Chry, deliberate and careful. Miraak is normally more eloquent so when he isn’t Chrysanthe pays attention, despite his brain working at about half the capacity it normally does. “Pleasant? In what way?”

“Being able to feel your thoughts and reactions to me. And that…” a sigh, “ _Krosis,_ this sounds asinine no matter how I phrase it. I like that you cannot lie to me.” Chrysanthe startles a little at that, and Miraak glances over at him. “I don’t mean you lie normally. I just mean that the telepathy makes it impossible, or at least extremely obvious when one tries deceit. It’s a… reassurance. That everything you feel for me is genuine.”

“Was that ever in doubt?” Chry asks softly, a little afraid of the answer.

“No, there is just a… precedent,” Miraak says, gesturing vaguely. “The world I came from was cutthroat, because that is how the _dov_ wanted it to be. I am unused to someone who simply enjoys my company without ulterior motive. The telepathy reaffirms that.”

“Ah,” he says. Then: “You know if you’re looking for an ulterior motive, I wouldn’t mind learning Dovahzul from you.”

Miraak scoffs, “I could teach you an age’s worth of forbidden magic, and you ask for language lessons?”

“How much of your forbidden magic involves innocent blood sacrifices?”

“Most of it,” he admits.

“Pass then.”

The disdainful tone shifts into something fond. “I shall teach you Dovahzul. It is criminal that the Greybeards haven’t already.”

“If I was in quiet study with them instead of out fighting the world I’m sure they would have. You probably speak it better than they do anyway.” He smiles when Miraak agrees readily with this, never one to be humble. Before the topic can stray too far though, he does need to address the telepathy thing: “I like being connected with you too but it’s very… intense. And it leaves me like this,” He really hasn’t done much today. “The more we touch, the more tired I am when I wake, and that’s why we can’t do it too often.”

“I understand,” he sighs. “I would like to try it again at some point, but no time soon if it leaves you like this.”

“I mean, a lot has happened in the last week, that’s probably contributed. I’ll be better by tomorrow.”

-

He’s feeling better by the end of the day, in all honesty. And the upside is that Miraak has actually rested today as well, since he likes to stay close by Chrysanthe and Chrysanthe hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s helped, he can already see that Miraak is able to do more for himself than he could before. For all the healing magic Chrysanthe threw at him, nothing mends the body like bedrest.

Supposedly music mends the soul too, or at least that’s when he tells himself when he dusts off the lute he had stashed under the bed. He acquired his own after learning of that hidden talent in the bards college, but he rarely finds the time to play it. He figures he might as well while he’s feeling too idle to do anything more. It’s odd, he remembers exactly how to play despite his amnesia, the practical skill burned into his brain, but he’s forgotten any songs he may have learned. He therefore digs out the book of songs Giarmo gave him and sets about practising them well into the evening. Quietly, so as not to disturb Miraak’s meditation nearby.

He’s halfway through _Ragnar the Red_ when he glances over at Miraak, only to find the masked face turned towards him in rapt attention, rather than bowed in meditation as he was. His fingers halt on the strings at once, the song faltering to make way for an apology, “Sorry, did I disturb you?”

Miraak merely shakes his head. “You’re teaching yourself to play?”

He gives a wan smile, “Funny story, I already know how to play. Or knew, before the thrall thing wiped my memories. But even though I know what to do, I don’t remember any songs.”

“Interesting that you retained the skill itself. Did you find you had any other skills from before?”

“I don’t think so.” He’s always been quite good with practical, tactile things, but none of them gave him that same ring of familiarity that playing an instrument did. “I might have been a bard before I… whatever happened to me that made me a thrall.”

“You’re a little quiet to be a bard,” the other points out, not unreasonably, “Can you sing?”

“Uh, maybe? Lucien sings a lot, sometimes I’d join in.”

Miraak leans forward then. It speaks to the improvement of his health that he doesn’t wince this time. “Sing something for me.” It isn’t a _command_ , but like most of Miraak’s requests it lacks any questioning inflection.

He ducks his head, abruptly shy, “Ah, I don’t know… I don’t think I’m that good.” Miraak merely shrugs at this, still looking at him expectantly, and Chry bites down on his lip. “Alright, but you have to let me down gently if it sounds terrible.”

Of all the songs to demonstrate his vocal talents, the lowbrow lyrics of _Ragnar the Red_ isn’t his first choice. Of course the only other songs he knows the words to are _Age of Aggression_ or _Age of Oppression_ depending which side of the civil war you were on - he’s on neither side, so he doesn’t much like either of those tunes. That really only leaves one other song, so he finds the score in the music book. He clears his throat, suddenly nervous, before starting: “Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior’s heart… I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes…”

It’s a shaky rendition in his opinion but he doesn’t get heckled so that’s a win. Actually what happens is that at the end Miraak jabs a finger at him almost accusingly and says, “You _can_ sing.”

“I’m fairly sure most of that was off-key.”

“Not at all. Your voice could be, hm, stronger. A lack of confidence holds you back,” he admits, putting his hands in his lap. “You should practice more. Singing trains breath control and that will help your Voice as well.”

It’s a fair point, but it does make him wonder something, “Can you sing then?”

“It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes… Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes,” Miraak rattles off effortlessly. It’s as deep and bassy as he expected, but the mask gives it a sonorous metallic ring that makes his hairs stand on end. At the end of it Miraak tilts his head in self-reflection. “…Not as well as I used to. But I am out of practice.”

“Sounded quite good to me,” Chrysanthe manages, rubbing at the goosebumps along his arms. Miraak notices, going by the pleased hum he makes. “Wait, you probably know a bunch of songs that have been lost to the ages, right?”

“Dovahzul hymns mostly, but yes.”

Now that he thinks about it Miraak is a gold mine for any historian. Never mind all the forbidden arcana, just his _mundane_ knowledge is very valuable given he’s from such a vaguely-documented period. “I should take you to the bards college in Solitude sometime, they’d love to re-learn them, and just about everything you could tell them about the merethic era.”

The man rubs his mask thoughtfully, “I could tell them. If they agreed to craft a new song about my glory.”

Miraak’s ego often makes him want to both smile and roll his eyes at the same time. Even so, he can’t deny that Miraak’s past exploits are pretty ballad-worthy. “You tell them that you kicked off the dragon wars and they just might.”

-

The next few days are much of a muchness. Miraak is often asleep or meditating, and Chrysanthe passes the time sewing the furs he bought from Falkreath into a cloak that will actually keep him warm during dragon flight.

“I did not know you could sew,” Miraak comments when Chry explains what he’s doing, “I should not be surprised, given you put this house together as well. You’re very practical.”

“I just never saw the point in paying someone else when I could do it myself,” Chry hums, needle in hand. “Can you? Sew, I mean.”

He shakes his head. “I had servants for that. For everything.”

“Can you cook? I’m guessing not.”

“You guess correctly.”

Chrysanthe sighs, “That makes two of us. Teldryn is alright at it but he puts ash yams in everything.”

Miraak chuckles, which is always a pleasant sound; something about it always evokes a bloom of warmth in his chest. Its scarcity perhaps, unsurprisingly his ancient and oft-brooding counterpart isn’t much for laughter. He looks over at him, at the iconic golden mask, at the dark robes stitched with golden thread. The ravages of time didn’t have quite the same effect in Apocrypha but the robes were still subject to general wear and tear, the fabric mottled and edges frayed. Since they’re on the subject of sewing, he offers: “I could make you new robes if you wanted. To look like those ones, or something completely new.”

Miraak plucks at the worn garments. “Perhaps. I’ve lived in these for so long, it would feel strange to wear anything else.”

Chry can’t really imagine going four thousand years without changing his clothes. Probably just as well there was no perspiration in Apocrypha.

“If they looked exactly the same I could get used to it. Though I would like to see your designs for me,” Miraak continues, evidently talking himself into the idea, though he then shakes his head. “Later, anyway. Finish the cloak first.”

After days filled with sewing he has very sore fingers but he’s turned his vision into an actual garment. Of course the result is a bit… well… he’s not really the cloak-wearing type, never mind a floor-length cloak of fluffy furs. It sits heavily across his shoulders and he _does_ feel very warm, but he also feels a bit like one of the Jarls splayed on their thrones.

He tries it on in front of his counterpart, “What do you think?”

Miraak mostly stares at him.

He fidgets, “It’s too dramatic, isn’t it. Maybe if I remove the mantle-“

“No,” the other says immediately, “Keep the mantle.”

“It’s not too much?”

“It is exactly the right amount.”

Later he muses that Miraak is not a prime example of subtlety, what with his billowing longcoat robes and extravagant golden mask. But since he’s travelling with Miraak anyway, perhaps dressing more dramatically isn’t a bad thing.

-

That evening he sits outside with Miraak, sat propped against a wide-based tree just a little way from the house, and they watch sunset turn to night. It’s summer so the air is still pleasantly warm, and there are torchbugs drifting prettily between the pines. Miraak has his mask off - not without some reluctance, as Chrysanthe suspected for dragon priests the masks were very much a permanent fixture, taken off only when strictly needed. Even now he notices Miraak always keeps it within grabbing distance.

The chief reason he agreed to remove it in the first place is that Chrysanthe brought food. He has some braided bread - picked up from Falkreath this morning, still soft enough that Miraak can actually eat it - and some honey he collected from his apiary. He watches with interest as Miraak takes his first bite of food that’s actually tasty as opposed to the bland soups he’s had so far, and laughs a little at the facial expression that suggests he’s had some kind of revelation. “Is it good?”

“Mmn. It’s… ah. I’d forgotten what sugar tasted like.”

“Just wait until I get you eating sweetrolls. Life will never be the same.”

A light discussion about food turns into companionable silence with only crickets and the last remnants of birdsong to fill it. He runs out of bread before he runs out of honey, wishes he’d had the forethought to bring out a spoon and they just end up scooping it out with fingers instead. And then somewhere along the way he looks over at Miraak licking honey off his ungloved fingers in the waning light and his brain goes _oh, that’s very attractive._

He startles, because he doesn’t have much of a precedent for those sort of thoughts, and where did that come from anyway? And unfortunately this attracts the notice of Miraak who looks over and says, “What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles quickly, too quickly, goes back to the honeypot. He’s got two honey-dipped fingers halfway to his mouth before he realises Miraak is watching him quite intently, and so he pauses. “Yes?”

A slow smile curls at Miraak’s lips. “Nothing,” he parrots airily.

But he’s- “You’re still looking.”

“Astute of you to notice.”

The honey is going to start dripping into his lap at this rate and that is definitely the reason he resumes putting his fingers to his mouth. Not because there is a sudden surge of weird don’t-back-down mentality or anything. Pure practicality.

Admittedly, he didn’t need to hold Miraak’s gaze while curling his tongue around his fingers.

The narrowing of eyes is all the warning he gets before Miraak leans in to close the distance between them. Broad fingers close around his comparatively narrow wrist, forcibly pull his sticky fingers away from his mouth, which is summarily replaced with a searing kiss. Chrysanthe shudders, feeling something warm and satisfied curling low in his stomach, the heat seeping downwards. He’s almost disappointed when Miraak pulls back again.

“…You know I mostly wanted you to try honey to see your reaction, not to seduce you with it,” Chry offers weakly.

“Unintentionally devious as ever,” Miraak declares. The pot is still perched on the ground between them; he lets go of Chrysanthe’s wrist to pick it up, dips two fingers inside to scoop up the last remnants at the bottom. But the mouth he raises those dripping fingers to is not his own, but Chry’s. His heart stutters in his chest at that, eyes wide even as Miraak’s are narrowed in hungry anticipation. The man doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask permission, just pushes forward until they’re pressed against Chrysanthe’s mouth, and it’s that aggressive insistence that does Chry in.

He parts his lips, and no sooner has he when he feels Miraak’s two fingers slip past them and into his mouth.

For a moment he’s paralysed with… lust, perhaps. The sounds of the forest around him are all muted; all he can hear is the heartbeat pounding in his ears and the sound of Miraak’s breathing, heavy and laboured. The air between them feels as thick as the honey melting on his tongue. If he looked around he’d half-expect to find the world around them frozen in time, the leaves paused mid-rustle, the torchbugs suspended in the air. But he doesn’t look, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Miraak’s if he tried.

The honey dissolves into nothingness on his tongue before he has the sense to actually lick it up. Miraak’s fingers finally withdraw glistening with saliva, not that either of them pay that much mind. “ _Silronit_ ,” the man whispers hoarsely, still holding that unblinking eye contact. The hand that grips at the honey pot lets it fall carelessly by the wayside, instead bracing against the ground so he can push himself upwards, over Chrysanthe-

Chry answers with a hand to his chest and a gentle yet firm push back against the tree-trunk, pinning him in place. “You stay there.”

“But-” is the immediate protest but Chrysanthe doesn’t let him finish before he’s started moving himself, swinging one leg over the man’s thighs and coming to settle in his lap - goes to Miraak, rather than has Miraak come to him and aggravate his old aches. He lands more firmly than intended, made clumsy by nerves and unfamiliar passion, but Miraak’s sentence halts at once.

He doesn’t expect to keep this upper hand for long and sure enough he feels a broad, warm hand - still a touch damp with his saliva - curl around his nape and drag him inwards. He gets a gasp in before Miraak pushes their mouths together, a kiss very much taken by force. Wet warmth brushes against his lips and when he relents he finds a honey-tinged tongue slip inside to play with his own. The new sensation has his head swimming, the heat pooling under his skin, but it’s at its strongest between his legs. When they finally pull apart, both gasping for air, he looks down and can see the hardness straining at his breeches. Miraak is the same, the sight of which makes his cheeks burn with pleased embarrassment.

Miraak looks too, then back at Chrysanthe’s face, his own cast in hungry lust. He says only two words, but they’re so effective that Chrysanthe actually shudders: “Undo them.”

His fingers were steadier in the telepathy, the body he had being more of an extension of his will. Here in the physical world they shake with nerves and excitement, the button slipping futilely from his grasp. It takes Miraak’s altogether more confident touch to his wrist to steady him enough to actually get his damn fly open. His breath catches when Miraak pushes the fly open further, then curls into the waistband of his smalls underneath, drags the material down. It slides over the firm swell of his hardness and then he’s - _exposed_ , manhood freed to the open air. Despite knowing full well there’s only the two of them out here he can’t held but glance around the forest for anyone watching.

“Just us,” Miraak soothes, “Even if someone stumbled in I can shock them from here.”

“That won’t stop me from dying from embarrassment.”

Miraak glances down at his groin, then back up with a smirk, “Nothing to be embarrassed about, in my opinion.”

Chrysanthe gives an undignified sort of squawk and only just remembers not to prod Miraak in the ribs.

Not that he’s given much time to be mortified, as Miraak’s hand moves to his own breeches. He has lacing, not buttons, which he tugs free in short order while Chry watches with wide eyes and pink cheeks. His face only darkens when Miraak exposes himself as well, length bobbing free of the clothing, pale skin in sharp contrast to dark fabric. This isn’t actually the first time he’s seen him, Miraak has been completely naked in front of him before. Those circumstances were as far from sexual as it got though, it wasn’t like Chry had fixated on that part of him as he does now. And of course, this is his first time seeing Miraak hard, his foreskin retracted and pink-hued glans exposed.

“You’re, um-” argh, he’s just not as eloquent as Miraak is. Not that one can really wax poetic about malehood anyway. “-Big,” he manages lamely.

Miraak laughs at him, but it’s a very pleased sound, maybe a little preening. “I think you’re comparable actually. If I do this-”

He pulls Chrysanthe further inwards, eliciting a breath as they brush together. That breath becomes a groan when he takes them both in hand, lengths laid flush alongside each other. He has altmer skin - obviously - but the hue of it seems all the golder compared to Miraak’s fair skin tone, a pleasing juxtaposition of colour.

He’s not even paying attention to their comparative sizes until Miraak sighs, “You’re bigger. How annoying.”

“I wouldn’t say so.” Not so much bigger as longer, Chrysanthe thinks, because he’s proportionate to his height and he’s a high elf, the clue is in the name. But Miraak is… goodness this is embarrassing to even think about - he’s _thicker_. Figures, because Miraak is in himself about as tall as Chrysanthe is but oh so much broader, which gives the illusion of extra size. Same here, although ‘illusion’ is the wrong word. When his skittish fingers wrap around Miraak’s length there’s really nothing illusionary about how big it feels in his hands.

Miraak makes a _very_ pleased sound at Chrysanthe touching him of his own accord. Chry can’t imagine that his featherlight pawing really stimulates anything, but going by Miraak’s heavy breathing, the way he looks up at Chry through his pale eyelashes, mentally he’s more than satisfied. Their fingers brush together as they both slowly stroke, Miraak offering occasional instruction: _the underside feels best. Foreskin up, that makes it easier. Easier still with something to slick the way. Spit will do - something better, next time._

But languid stroking will only take them so far. He only realises Miraak has let go of his nape - which he’d been holding onto to keep Chrysanthe within kissing distance - when he’s reached out for the wayward honey pot again. His fingers dip inside, stirring up the last of the substance he can find, and then return to Chrysanthe’s mouth. He can’t help but groan when they’re pushed past his lips again, the sweet taste on his tongue. Only this time Miraak draws them back, only to push inside again, the motion careful, experimental. When Chrysanthe offers no protest he does it again, then again, to the same timing that his hand slides up and down both their lengths.

Unable to vocalise Chrysanthe whimpers around the fingers in his mouth. His length throbs and oozes pre-cum; he’s so hard it almost hurts. Neither the sound nor the twitch go unnoticed by Miraak who _growls_ , low and animalistic. And that of course feeds into Chrysanthe’s semi-secret adoration for Miraak’s draconic side, makes him squirm and shiver atop the other man.

“Ahh, you like that,” Miraak purrs in that deliciously deep, dark voice of his. Chrysanthe is reminded of their first meeting. _Ahh, you are Dragonborn_. Miraak was so powerful compared to him, back then. He still is really, but the reminder does funny things to Chry, makes his heart quicken and blood rush. He doesn’t have the sense to be embarrassed by that, so far gone as he is, he can only groan helplessly. “Oh, you do. I like it too. Keep going, my _silronit_ , I am so close…”

He’s close too. The hand half-wrapped around his length, the glans squeezed up against his own, that’s one thing, but the fingers thrusting in and out of his mouth are driving him sweetly mad way he’s never ever experienced before. His skin is hot all over, sweat trickling down his brow, his jaw, making his shirt stick damply to his back. And his manhood, gods, it’s a pleasure that’s only a few shades off pain, but he can feel the end to it at hand. That surging sensation, like a wave that needs to crest, like a cloud that needs to break, almost there, almost, _almost_ -

He’s the first to finish, crying out around the fingers in his mouth, spilling hot and white onto the fingers on his length. The actual, physical release feels _so good_ , better than the telepathy in that regard, and without his feelings being semi-mirrored back at him through the link he manages not to essentially black out this time. He shudders and trembles in ecstasy, maybe moaning too, he can’t really hear it over the white noise in his head.

Miraak all but snaps his teeth, his fingers pulling from Chrysanthe’s mouth with a wet sound. They aid in the now quite frantic stroking below, and it’s not long at all until he finds his end as well. Vocally he’s a lot more restrained than Chry is but he does have a fantastically expressive face, upon with the pleasure is written as clear as day. Possibly it’s impolite for Chry to stare so intensely but he can’t help but drink in the sight, particularly since he completely missed Miraak’s climax last time. The way his eyes flutter shut, his brow smooths and lips part. The line of tension across his shoulders suddenly loosing like a cut string. He actually misses the actual orgasm, as in the chief body part involved, because he’s too busy looking at the rest of Miraak instead. When he feels something hot and wet splash across his exposed skin though, that gets his attention. He looks down to witness the ridiculously lewd sight of their lengths still gently pressed against each other, coated in thick white rivulets.

Silence then, both men too busy breathing heavily to say much. What _does_ one say after sex? Chrysanthe isn’t actually sure.

Whatever words he was going to attempt are interrupted, his breath hitching when he feels Miraak’s fingers sliding firmly up his shaft. It takes a moment to realise what he’s doing, namely collecting their mingled spend. The moment he realises this is when Miraak lifts fingers to his lips again, this time coated in cum rather than honey. Formerly on the verge of relaxing, Chry’s pulse once again thumps heavily in his chest.

He parts his lips.

“Good,” Miraak murmurs again when he slides them inside. The taste is strange, salty and bitter, but it’s not terrible. Also frankly whatever the taste, it’s worth it for the searing look the other dragonborn gives him. “You are so good for me. Again, more-”

Chry does take more, a second helping of the quickly-cooling stuff from Miraak’s fingers, but he likes to maintain some semblance of equality, so he reaches down too. Miraak quirks a brow when Chrysanthe pointedly lifts his fingers to Miraak’s lips, having not expected that, but then he leans forward and licks up the offering, tongue curling sinuously around Chrysanthe’s fingers.

“Oh,” Chry says faintly when his fingers are clean and Miraak leans back again, smugly satisfied. “Alright yes, I see why you like that now.”

“It is intimate,” Miraak shrugs by way of explanation, “And I like your mouth.”

Chrysanthe huffs with laughter, somewhere between flustered and flattered. “I like your words. I wish I was better at them myself.” The sweet nothings Miraak murmured throughout that came so smoothly, naturally. Chrysanthe suspects that if he tried the same it would just sound awkward.

“You have a tendency to make up for it in other ways,” he’s told, to which he raises an eyebrow, “You are very responsive, is what I mean. That’s a good thing.”

“Hard not to be responsive when you’re doing things like - _that_.”

“I have a lot more than _that_ in mind for you in due time, I assure you,” Miraak murmurs in that gods-damned voice of his. No-one should be able to speak like that. It isn’t _fair_.

Not that he’s really complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Krosis_ \- literally ‘sorrow’, used as an apology basically.  
>  _Silronit - ‘_ soul-rival’, rival being in the sense of ‘equal/comparison’. An alternative to _Silgron_ (soul-bond) that seemed fitting for Miraak.
> 
> -
> 
> Apologies, this chapter is a little shorter than the usual fare but it’s sort of a collection of scenes I wanted to write in. Mostly that, uh, one quite long smutty scene. Main plot will resume soon!
> 
> P.S. I didn’t set out to write Miraak with an oral fixation but he apparently has one now.
> 
> P.P.S ‘Manhood’ is decidedly not my favourite term for male anatomy, but it’s Chrysanthe’s perspective and he’s too delicate to use the word cock, so there you have it.
> 
> P.P.P.S I drew Chrysanthe if you fancy a look: https://99corentine.tumblr.com/post/622830849708212225/ive-been-meaning-to-draw-my-dragonborn-chrysanthe. Don't forget to check out the picture of Miraak linked in the last chapter if you missed it!


	17. Chapter 17

It’s been a week. By his count Lucien and Teldryn should now be on the ship to Windhelm, and from there they’ll progress to Winterhold and await him in the College. That gives him a day or so more for recovery, since he knows that he can go from Falkreath to Winterhold in the space of a day if he travels by dragon.

Miraak’s still injured, is the thing.

Or well, he’s not, the wound is completely closed now and Miraak can actually bend at the waist without re-opening anything. Chrysanthe would expect this new mobility to be accompanied with Miraak trying to, ahem, manhandle him as he seems quite keen on doing, but he’s surprised when he doesn’t (and maybe a bit disappointed, but he inwardly scolds himself for that stupidity). The reason becomes apparent over time; the wound is gone but he can see stiffness in how Miraak moves, like his limbs were closer to wood than flesh.

Despite repeated lectures the other man still isn’t particularly forthcoming when he’s hurt, so Chry eventually just outright asks him: “Are you alright? You’re moving a little oddly.”

Miraak grunts in response, as though he was making an effort to disguise this and is forlorn at being noticed. “I am… sore.”

“The wound?”

“No, just – all over. Every joint.”

Chry taps his chin thoughtfully. He’s already scoured Miraak for further injuries and found none. His suspicion is that Apocrypha had nothing in the way of fatigue, or the outright muscle atrophy he’s sure Miraak should have had by now. “I think you might just be adjusting to actually _living_ again. It should get better with time, but we can probably do something for the pain…” a hot bath would do the trick. Chrysanthe’s little cottage has no such facilities, but he does have something even better. “I have an idea, if you’re up for a walk.”

-

“It’s somewhere near here…” he mutters, looking around the pines. This is one of those places that he stumbled on entirely by accident; now he’s deliberately looking for it, of course he can’t find it again. Eventually though he sees a sliver of a cave in the rock face. “Ah!”

Inside, a shaded and wooded little cave. It at first looks as though that’s all there is to it, but there’s a half-hidden incline, and a fallen log acting as a makeshift bridge to an otherwise inaccessible section. He leads Miraak across all of this, and through another hard-to-spot gap in the cave wall until-

They emerge on the other side of the pass and into a vast open area. This place is called _Ancestor Glade_ , he learned from asking around Falkreath, though few people knew of its existence at all. And indeed he could think of no other term to describe it but a glade, a natural garden surrounded by cavern walls on all sides but the ceiling, flourishing away from the competition of the forest proper. It is dotted with blossom trees, too delicate to normally populate Skyrim’s boreal woodland, splashes of dreamy pink among the verdant green. Around those cluster ancestor moths of pale gossamer wings, creating an ever-present fluttering to accompany the birdsong and rustling leaves. For all that Chrysanthe has heard of Sovngarde, if there is a heaven to be had, for him it looks like this.

Best of all is the trickle of running water, the faint haze and hiss of rising steam from the pools of crystal-clear water on the ground. Miraak hears it too, head cocked thoughtfully. “Is that… hot springs?”

“Exactly,” Chry beams. “Should be good for chasing away those aches of yours.”

There are hot springs to be found north of the Rift as well, but they’re shared by other groups of people, or by giants and their mammoths which, unfortunately, you can smell bathing from a mile away. These however are completely hidden away from the outside world and therefore, he hopes, will result in no interruptions.

But just to be safe… “ **KAAN DREM OV** ,” he calls out to the cave, the Shout of Kyne’s Peace emerging more like a soothing lullaby. He sees the calming aura settle over a few of the little birds flitting between the trees but nothing else, so they should be alone. That Shout works a treat on Spriggans as well, if there happen to be any of those hiding in the glade, but he doesn’t think there are any present.

He startles when he feels fingers lace with his, looks down and sees Miraak has taken his hand. “Hmm?”

“I enjoy hearing your Voice,” Miraak explains lightly. Funny, Chrysanthe can almost hear the capital V when he says the word. “The way you use it is… different, than mine. Softer, but no less quiet.”

A thought crosses his mind: “I suppose you’ve never heard anyone else Shouting? Could any of the other priests do it, in your time?” He sort of already knows the answer to this - Paarthurnax taught the three nord heroes to Shout after Miraak disappeared and they became the first Tongues - but he’s wondered before if the other dragon priests knew a word or two.

But of course, Miraak shakes his head. “They spoke Dovahzul fluently, but there is a difference between speaking and Shouting. The dov assumed mortals were incapable of it, until me.”

So Miraak was really the only one who could do it. Not for the first time he considers how lonely it must have been, to be literally the only one of his kind. Chrysanthe has felt that dissonance from other people as well, but at least he had the guidance of the Greybeards, and to a lesser extent the Blades. He hasn’t forgotten how he felt after learning the prophecy of the Last Dragonborn, and seeing Alduin in the flesh for a second time; nor has he forgotten the relief on seeing Miraak again and knowing that he might have been the _last_ , but at least he wasn’t the _only_. No such comfort for Miraak back in the day - but now here they were, two of a kind. It’s his intention that Miraak will never feel that loneliness again.

It’s something he feels he should voice. But despite the poetic thoughts in his head, when he opens his mouth all that comes out is: “But now you’re, uh, I mean I’m here - we’re both here - um-” for heaven’s sake. He stops and tries again but he’s ruined the moment now, and the words emerge exasperation rather than emotional: “I’m glad that we found each other, is what I mean to say. Sorry, I’m - I’m not very good at this.”

He’s sure Miraak is smiling behind the mask. “You are fortunate I find your lack of eloquence endearing.”

“ _You’re_ fortunate I find your blunt honesty endearing,” Chrysanthe counters easily, but the back-forth helps dissipate his conversational awkwardness. He tugs lightly at the other Dragonborn’s hand, gesturing at the slope leading the hot springs proper. “Come on, let’s get in the water.”

He has a few chores to do first, though. His plan is to spend all day here, so when they’re on flatter ground he goes about putting up a tent that they can sleep in tonight, and make the journey back tomorrow. While he’s setting that up Miraak lays down a few precautions at the glade entrance, paralysis runes he assures Chry the small wildlife won’t set off. It’s mid-afternoon by the time he’s finally ready to do what he came here for, relinquishing his armour and the clothes beneath. He gets to his smallclothes before realising that Miraak has never seen him wholly naked before now, and a sudden shyness overcomes him. Utterly irrational given Miraak has seen his most intimate parts (and touched there too, though they’ve gone no further than that) but still he finds his fingers hesitant. This isn’t helped when he glances over at the other man and finds him staring right back. He’s disrobed far less briskly than Chry, removed all his armoured sundries but not yet his robes or mask. Even with his face covered the direction of his gaze is obvious - trained on the altmer’s hands, which are currently hovering at the waistband to his underwear.

Chry isn’t used to being ogled. His cheeks colour despite himself.

Blushing in Miraak’s presence is frankly a bad idea. The Dragonborn makes a low sound that’s both amused and intrigued, then intones in that unfairly rumbling voice of his: “Go on.”

He’s determined not to flounder. Still he doesn’t quite refrain from biting his lower lip as he curls his fingers into the smallclothes and pushes them down his thighs, eventually removing them altogether. There, he’s naked. Trying not to squirm under the look Miraak gives him. The impassiveness of the mask doesn’t lessen this at all, if anything he thinks it makes Miraak’s gaze even more piercing. Though he’s not kept clueless as to what expression his counterpart is wearing underneath there; Miraak reaches up with both hands to free the mask where it hooks into his mantle. At last the golden visage is pulled aside, and underneath Miraak’s blackened eyes are trained on him, narrowed with desire. Once they’ve locked gazes, it’s as though Chry can’t look away.

“Come here,” Miraak says, “Assist me with these robes.”

He doesn’t need assistance to undress these days, but they both know that’s not the point. Chrysanthe closes the gap between them, still trapped in those eyes even when his fingers tangle with the sash at Miraak’s waist. The blindness makes his movements clumsier than he’d like, fumbling to pull the robes open, but Miraak neither speaks nor moves to aid him, simply waits with a slowly-coiling sort of patience. His stare is somewhere between smolder and hunger, and ought to be intimidating - it _is_ in fact, but as with everything Miraak that aura of danger only draws Chry further in, instead of frightening him away. Miraak has this strange ability to hypnotise him so easily and so thoroughly… his only consolation is that he thinks the man inadvertently hypnotises _himself_ in the process, since he doesn’t seem any more capable of breaking the gaze than Chry is.

He does get the robes off him eventually, peeling the worn fabric off his broad shoulders, down thickly-muscled arms. He has to lean in to do so, close enough that their noses brush together, and he feels Miraak’s breath misting warmly across his lips. The garment is carelessly discarded on the floor, and in his peripheral he sees the mask slip from Miraak’s fingers-

The metallic _thunk_ it makes on landing makes them both flinch; Miraak immediately turns his head to look and just like that, the spell is broken.

Chrysanthe blinks, lets go of a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Is it alright?” he asks, a little shakily to his ears.

“It’s fine,” is the quiet response. He makes no move to pick the mask up, so Chry assumes it wasn’t damaged. His gaze returns to the altmer but it’s not the same entrancing stare as before, merely a look of… regular intimacy. His lips part as though to say something else, but hesitation crosses his features and stills the words before they emerge.

“What?” Chry coaxes softly.

Miraak merely shakes his head. “Unimportant. Here, let me-” his fingers move to unfasten his breeches, then remove them entirely. The movements are lethargic, as though pulled from a dream; Chrysanthe sort of feels the same way as he steps back to give the other the space to undress. This isn’t the first time Miraak has made him feel this way… a Dragonborn phenomena, perhaps? Or is this simply what lust is like? He has no basis for comparison.

Once they’re both fully naked Miraak reaches out to grasp at his hand - his right of course, the one with the ring. It’s often Miraak’s favoured point of contact now that he has unfettered access to it. Entwining their fingers he pulls Chrysanthe with him towards one of the pools, typically taking the lead even though Chry is more familiar with this place than he is. Wordless as they wade into the steaming water, save twin sighs of contentment at the temperature. He supports Miraak’s back as the man descends to sitting, the stiffness to his movements apparent, but hopefully soon to be chased away.

Chry moves to sit too, but Miraak still has a hold on him, and pulls him ever closer. “Come here.”

“Ah-” he ends up straddling his counterpart’s thighs, aware of the colour creeping across his face and to his ears. He’s been in this position before but there were always barriers, layers of clothing between them. Now it’s skin on skin - hot, wet skin at that. The water laps at both of their legs, not deep enough to submerge completely in, but enough to warm them through. He’s hard, owed to the closeness, helped by the heat. _Very_ helped by the sight of Miraak underneath him, pale skin painted with moisture by the rising steam, his own manhood also stirred to arousal and pleasantly pink at the tip. Miraak has definitely noticed his staring, given the smirk playing on his lips.

He ducks his head shyly at that, voice a mumble: “You know I did bring you here for pain relief, not for intimacy.”

He feels a finger under his chin before Miraak effortlessly turns Chry’s head back towards him, “But the connotations of taking me to a private hot spring did occur to you, I hope.”

Of course they did. He spent the whole walk up here trying to stay focused instead of thinking about what else Miraak might want to do with him besides soak in the water. But unlike his counterpart he’s not forward enough to be able to voice that, so he merely nods.

Fingers still tracing at Chrysanthe’s jaw, Miraak leans in a little, murmuring: “And do you want to? Be intimate?”

A shuddering breath. Nodding isn’t sufficient, so he forces his lips to shape the word: “Yes…”

He’s not sure who closes that last gap but their mouths meet all the same, and his eyes flutter shut. It’s not long before he feels a questioning tongue press to his lips, which he parts; it slides inside to play with his own, languid acts that seems to come naturally to Miraak. He knows the other man has tenfold more experience than him but surely four thousand years would be enough time to _forget_ that experience too? So he can only assume sheer confidence is the reason the other Dragonborn can take charge so easily. Chrysanthe can’t imagine that he’s nearly so good of a kisser in return, though he does receive a pleased hum when he tries exploring Miraak’s mouth as well.

He loses track of how much time they spend just like that. He realises at some point that Miraak’s hand has moved from his jaw to his ear, and then to the back of his head to tangle pleasantly in his hair. His own fingers tentatively slide around the atmoran’s biceps, curling against the muscle. He’s so - _solid_ , which seems like a strange compliment, and a strange thing to find so appealing, but he does. Something about the lack of softness makes his pulse quicken, though he’s not sure if his new-found attraction is to _masculinity_ per se, or simply to _Miraak_. It’s all so new to him. He’s still not entirely sure what to do, aside from touch and explore - Miraak doesn’t seem to be in any rush but they should take it further eventually, right? Should he move his hands lower? Wrap them around Miraak’s - well - his-

 _Cock_ , his mind supplies helpfully. Even thinking the word makes him squirm. He’s a prude at heart.

Miraak notices his squirm and pulls back from the kiss with a questioning noise. “I’m just… thinking. About what we should do,” Chrysanthe offers by way of explanation. He gets a further inquisitive noise at that, this one at a deeper register that sets his skin tingling and has him stammering out an elaboration: “I’m new to this but - but I have a general idea of how - I mean, I know we could use our hands or mouths or…”

He receives an increasingly heated expression as he trails off into silence. Miraak has outright stated that he finds his inexperience appealing; the way his fingers press possessive divots into Chrysanthe’s thigh would concur. “Or other things,” he rumbles, “I have so many things I would like to do with you. Should I tell you? Should I speak plainly?”

“Yes,” Chry whispers. His heart’s thudding in his chest. Miraak must be able to feel it too.

The man leans in for a kiss. Chry accepts, gets lost in the feeling of it, and therefore gives a somewhat undignified squeak when he feels Miraak’s hand snake up his thigh, around his hips and then firmly _grasp_ at his rear. Would that this was all he had planned, but no - his fingers then slip between the water-slick cheeks, and Chry bites down hard on his lip, eyes wide, when he feels a digit rub firmly against his hole.

“I want to touch you here,” Miraak murmurs against his lips. Chrysanthe’s brain is still scrabbling to catch up with the situation, the sudden surge forwards their intimacy has taken with this simple movement. _Oh_ , that’s Miraak’s finger tracing against him in slow circles, leaving sparks of stimulation in its wake. And then the man continues: “I want to fill you with my fingers, open you up. Until it’s not enough, and you beg me for something _bigger._ ” Another kiss, like he can’t stay away from Chrysanthe’s lips for too long. This one comes far less gentle than anything prior, a domineering clash of mouths that makes Chry forget to breathe. When they break apart he’s gasping for air, and Miraak seems equally ragged: “Tell me you want it too, _silgron?_ Anything is yours if you ask me.”

Now what he _tries_ to say is _oh gods yes please that sounds amazing also you have such a ridiculous way with words_. But what _emerges_ is a formless whimper of aroused desperation. Fortunately it is an answer all in itself, or at least Miraak interprets it as such; his teasing fingers leave Chrysanthe’s skin to skim at the spring water. Then they lift to the altmer’s mouth - and as before, with the honey-sticky intimacy they shared outside his house the other day, they push forwards, past his lips. He lets them, unable to stop his groan as he feels two warm digits slide onto his tongue.

“Get them as wet as you can,” is the purred instruction, and a breathless laugh at the shiver this elicits from Chrysanthe. He lathes them as thoroughly as he’s able, the slick sounds of his mouth so audible to his ears even over the bubbling hot spring and rustling trees of the glade. When Miraak finally pulls the fingers back they’re dripping with saliva, and he murmurs sweet, senseless praise as he coils back around the elf’s waist, to where he touched before. Having fingers there is one thing, but having slick, _purposeful_ fingers is even more dizzying. It’s all he can do to cling on to Miraak’s wide shoulders as he feels a single digit circling, circling.

And then-

“Ah-!”

Miraak moves to soothe him at once, the hand not currently occupied tracing along his jaw, “Does it hurt?”

“N-no, it’s just - strange.” A single finger, not painful. Though that doesn’t stop him from making another involuntary noise when Miraak takes this as the go-ahead to push in a little deeper, wriggling his saliva-wet finger further inside. Gods, that’s _weird_. It’s not bad-weird, he’s just not sure if it’s good-weird either. His manhood is still stiff between his legs though, aching at having been hard for so long during their slow affections, though nothing about it feels slow anymore.

“You’ve had nothing inside you before this?” Miraak questions, “Not even your own curious fingers?”

He’s asked this before. _Have you done anything at all? With yourself, not just other people._ But he thinks Miraak likes re-affirming that he’s the first person with whom Chry has shared any intimacy. So he shakes his head: “Nothing.”

As expected, Miraak makes a pleased sound. “It does feel strange but you will grow accustomed. Here, this should help-”

He almost yelps when Miraak’s free hand drops from his face and wraps firmly around his neglected length instead. There’s a veritable throb at being touched at long last and he bucks his hips into the grip, then groans when he feels that finger sink even deeper inside of him, now buried up to the knuckle. He’s caught helplessly between the twin points of sensation, even moreso when Miraak starts both stroking slowly up and down his manhood… and then wriggling his finger back-forth inside, as well. The latter is worked up in increments until Chrysanthe can feel him smoothly sliding in and out. As predicted the strangeness of being filled ebbs away, and in its place is a growing pleasure. It’s not the same as Miraak’s hand wrapped around him, but it’s still enjoyable.

He whimpers a little when he feels the finger withdraw, and then return wider - _two_ fingers, he realises. That’s very different, he can feel himself being stretched wider, opened up. He recalls the earlier mention of _something bigger_ and shudders, leans forward to cling to his counterpart. Divines, this is really happening. A week ago they were rivals, and Miraak was trying to kill him. Now they’re lovers, and Miraak has his fingers pushed inside him. How did any of this even happen?

Two fingers makes Miraak’s movements a little more forceful, both their bodies rocking back and forth against each other and disturbing the water around them. More obviously and aggressively sexual, which leaves Chrysanthe feeling almost drunk on the lust. Miraak is underneath and all around him, wet with steam and perspiration both, panting with exertion. He’s so focused on Chrysanthe, ignoring his own straining, dark-tipped length, like some beast of single-minded purpose. And the way he strokes, it’s just a little too rough. The way his arm curls around Chry’s waist, it’s just a little too tight. Increments in dominance that Chry relishes more than he thinks he should and make him wind in tighter and tighter circles, threatening to uncoil. His head tips back of its own volition, baring his throat.

Underneath him he feels Miraak _shudder_. “Don’t,” the man rasps warningly.

But Chry wants. He wants the animal side of him. They lock gazes and rather than tip his head forward again Chrysanthe stretches a little further in open invitation-

He almost sees the snap of self control flit across those dark eyes. The older Dragonborn surges forward, mouth at the bared junction between Chry’s neck and shoulder, and there is the sharp press of _teeth_ -

He cries out. There’s a lance of pain at the breaking of skin but it’s completely overwhelmed by pleasure, pleasure, _pleasure._ His world goes white and fizzy. He’s dimly aware of the release from his aching cock, splattering over Miraak’s skin, and the unimaginable relief that comes with it, like floating on a cloud.

The sensation is short-lived. Something knocks the breath from him and forces him to come back to his senses. His visions sharpens into seeing Miraak above him, braced on his forearms and blocking out the light streaming overhead. Warm lapping at his sides tells him he’s lying in water. _Wait, what?_ Wasn’t he straddling Miraak’s lap?

“Miraak?” he says stupidly, brain still working overtime to catch up. Did Miraak roll them both over?

Above him Miraak is breathing harshly, brows drawn tight and a touch of something wild in his eyes. “You - you cannot _do_ that to me-” he starts and _oh_ , his voice is _dark._ Chrysanthe immediately feels both a rush of yearning and a tremor of nervousness at it. “You _know_ it brings out my _dovahsil_ and I-” he cuts himself off, looking down at Chry’s prone form, like a predator before a prey. If Chry’s mind is moving at a crawl Miraak’s is evidently moving at a sprint. The words tumble from his lips like a stream of consciousness: “I have to have you. You must be mine. I need - I need-”

He snatches back to balance on his knees. Briefly wets his hand with saliva before rubbing it into the length hanging heavily between his legs, then grasps at Chrysanthe’s thighs to pry them apart. Adrenaline streaks through him as he realises what Miraak means to do; he pushes himself to sit upright but he’s still too sluggish in the wake of his orgasm, bones feeling like jelly. Physically weak compared to Miraak, who brims with maddened energy. He could Shout but he’s breathless from the exertion, the Voice won’t come to him easily.

He can’t adequately defend himself, he realises.

He isn’t sure if he _wants_ to, he realises after that.

His mind is awash with visions of Miraak slamming himself into Chrysanthe’s not-quite-prepared body, taking what he wants without care and Chry doesn’t want that - shouldn’t want that - oh but a part of him _does_ , it _does_. Miraak will hurt him. It won’t be an act of love. It’ll be a _fight_.

“ _Miraak,_ ” he whispers hoarsely. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to convey with the words - whether it’s _stay away_ or _come closer_ \- but all the same Miraak looks up from jostling Chry into position and meets his eyes. He stumbles through an explanation: “I can’t - this is a bad idea and we’ll both regret it. We can’t.”

“ _Hi los dii_ ,” Miraak hisses lowly back at him, seething and serpentine. Chrysanthe doesn’t know the words, hasn’t learned Dovahzul, but somehow he parses the meaning: _you’re mine_. He next words are in common but they seem no less draconic: “You bared your neck to me. You _came_ when I bit you. You truly do not want this?”

The neck-baring was a bad idea. Or a really great idea, a part of him still insists, but that part is growing quieter as rational thought resumes in his muddled mind. “We’ll regret it,” Chry repeats.

Miraak narrows his eyes. “That’s not a no.”

It isn’t. He swallows thickly. “It’s not a yes,” he says at last. And then because he doesn’t want that interpreted as an outright rejection: “We can do something else, just not - _that_.”

The other is still for a moment, shoulders tensed. And a part of Chrysanthe thinks that maybe, just maybe, Miraak will deny him.

He can’t help a startled sound when Miraak moves to close the gap between them, braces one arm in the shallow water for balance, curls around the back of Chrysanthe’s head with the other and drags him inwards for a bruising kiss. He gasps under the force of it but, typically, finds himself leaning in rather than pulling back. Even his body stirs to lazy arousal again at the show of aggression.

“ _Something else_ ,” Miraak rasps when he finally wrenches their mouths apart again. “If I cannot claim you at least let me pretend. Lie back,” he doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing firmly against Chrysanthe’s chest to force him to the floor. He goes with a splash, thankful that his head appears to have landed in a shallow part of the spring. His pulse flutters when the atmoran lies on top of him, trapping him with his weight, and his fingers curl around Chrysanthe’s wrists to pin them either side of his head. It flutters further still when he feels the hot, hard press of Miraak’s length slide up against his own - which is quickly re-stiffening under the attention. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“You’re not going inside?” Chry asks nervously. He really hopes that isn’t a hint of yearning in his voice too.

“No,” Miraak says brusquely, before pausing and amending: “One day. When I have the patience to make you beg.”

Chrysanthe does not have a dignified answer to that, only some variation on _yes please_. He opts to remain wordless and do as he’s asked, lifting long altmer legs to wrap around Miraak’s hips. It’s a pose equal parts intimate and vulnerable, leaving his hole thoroughly exposed. The other Dragonborn’s manhood is currently sliding wetly alongside Chry’s own, but he’s aware that with a quick jostle he’d be in a prime position for Miraak to enter him. He’s only partially stretched open from the fingers earlier and the modicum of saliva hardly serves as a lubricant, but still, he could…

He exhales with a shudder. Miraak said he wouldn’t, so he isn’t going to. Unless Chrysanthe asks him. Which he won’t.

Fortunately the spiral of his thoughts is disturbed when Miraak’s fingers tighten around his trapped wrists, and the man rolls his hips forward so their lengths firmly rub together. Then draws back, so he can do it again - and again, and again. It’s a motion that undulates through his entire body, the muscles rippling wherever Chrysanthe can feel them. He briefly worries for Miraak’s injuries but it’s a testament to how well he’s healed that he can move like this at all. The heat of the water must have helped ease his earlier pains too, for there’s no woodenness in the way he moves now.

“Are you- mmn-” he’s interrupted by an open-mouthed kiss. Miraak keeps his lips occupied - possibly because he hasn’t the patience for chatter right now - until Chry has forgotten his original words, reduced to stuttered moans instead. Now he’s the one lying down in the water he can feel the heat seeping into his very bones, which were already good and relaxed from his earlier climax. The only part of him _not_ in a blissful pile are his legs, which tremble and clench around Miraak’s waist as he thrusts. Gods, it really is almost like they’re - like they really are-

 _Fucking_ , his mind supplies again. Yes, well, that is probably the best term for it. _Making love_ doesn’t quite seem apt, given the forcefulness.

He assumes this mimicry isn’t as good as the real thing for Miraak, but nonetheless the man seems to be approaching climax - being pent up for so long probably helps. His mouth pulls from Chrysanthe’s with a wet sound and finds his throat instead. Chry’s breath hitches at the press of teeth but it’s not as harsh as the bite from before, more like… a warning, almost. Or a show of dominance that brings Miraak the pleasure he needs to find his end; he feels those hips stutter against him as Miraak groans into his skin, and something hot and thick spills between their bodies.

For a moment they’re simply breathing harshly against each other, in sharp contrast to the peaceful nature sounds around them. The teeth at his throat withdraw, then so does the pinning weight as Miraak props himself back upright. Finally he lets go of Chrysanthe’s wrists, caged hard enough to leave the imprint of fingers, and lands back in the water with a heavy splash. His breathing is heavy but settled, the frenzy of earlier seems to have well and truly abated. Chrysanthe gingerly sits up, rubbing at his wrists, then at his neck in the _two_ separate places he’s been bitten. He’s startled by the sting of broken skin; it seems the first bite drew blood.

Miraak notices the flinch, and Chrysanthe notices him noticing. “I was… carried away,” he offers lowly. It’s not an apology, but maybe something close: “When you bare your neck like that it does - something. I cannot think clearly.”

He holds up a hand, “I knew what I was doing when I did it. Sort of. I think we were both, um. Swept up in the moment.” It’s not an empty platitude, he remembers distinctly _wanting_ to see that animal side of Miraak. And even when it emerged he didn’t… exactly regret his actions. “I don’t mind that side of you - still don’t mind, even with this,” he gestures at the bites. They’re easily chased away with a little healing magic. He’s not quite feeling brave enough to admit that he _likes_ the animal side, finds it strangely intoxicating, because it’s a desire he still doesn’t understand himself.

 _I have to be more careful_. It doesn’t matter that Miraak’s aggressiveness apparently does something for him, if he encourages it too much there may come a time where he needs Miraak to stop, and Miraak won’t.

He thinks that Miraak must have noticed, surely, how enthusiastic Chrysanthe was when he was treated roughly. But he doesn’t comment, merely tipping his head thoughtfully. “Good. I enjoyed it - though I think you were right to set limits. When I have more patience and better health, we will do this properly.”

It’s a promise that stirs at his desire again, but he doesn’t answer the call this time. He gives Miraak a look-over, noticing that the fluidity of earlier has shifted back into awkward movements suggestive of old aches resurfacing: “Better health you say? Are you in any pain now?”

“A little,” Miraak admits.

“Time for a long soak, then,” Chry says, “Which was my original plan, I’d just like to reiterate.”

-

He manages to keep Miraak in the hot spring for a good few hours by occupying him with conversation, until the afternoon darkens into evening. They emerge prune-like from the water for dinner - he’s pleased to see Miraak finally remembering to eat without reminding - and then they sit by the tent he set up. He opts for a magelight rather than a campfire. Less impactful on the glade, and it’s warm enough in here with the hot springs.

After eating, Miraak sits in contemplative silence. Not for the first time Chrysanthe wonders what’s going on in that ancient head of his. “Septim for your thoughts?” And then, at the quizzical look he receives: “Sorry, modern phrasing. What are you thinking about?”

“Many things,” Miraak says. “Mostly, I was thinking - I have enjoyed this time with you. But…”

Oh no. _But…_ trailed off is never a good sign. Trying not to sound too anxious, he coaxes: “But?”

He must do a poor job at hiding his nerves, as Miraak holds up a placating hand, “I mean to say, my time is not infinite. I cannot afford to while my days away, especially when I’m not sure how many I have. One assumes I have the lifespan of a normal atmoran, but being Dragonborn may make me live longer - or being tainted by Apocrypha may make my days shorter.” He sighs, “Regardless of the answer, what I _do_ know is that time marches onwards, and I cannot sit idle. I am as recovered now as I will ever be, so we should leave Falkreath, and make our mark on the rest of the world.”

He finds his fingers fidgeting. He knew abstractly that this issue would surface eventually - Miraak is not content with a quiet life. And that’s fine, because they have to save the world from Alduin. But he does have this insistent little voice in the back of his mind asking the hard questions: _And what about after that?_

Miraak, unaware of those thoughts, continues: “You said we planned to meet the others in Winterhold within the next few days. Where are we going after that?”

“To a dwemer ruin called Alftand. We’re looking for an entrance to an underground place called Blackreach.”

“Blackreach,” Miraak echoes, “That is the modern name given to Fal’Zhardum Din, is it not? A former dwemer city.”

“That’s right.” A thought occurs to him. “The dwemer were alive in your time, right?” He wonders if that means Miraak will have any lost-to-time insight into how dwemer places operate.

Apparently not: “Yes, but they had little contact with the surface world. We atmorans shared a common enemy with them, the snow elves, who as I understand it eventually became the falmer.”

“After being enslaved by the dwemer, yes.”

Miraak simply snorts, “I assure you the snow elves deserved it. They were not a kind people.”

 _Neither were the atmorans,_ Chrysanthe nearly says, but refrains. Every race in history were bloody-minded psychopaths as far as he can tell, and the high elves are no exception either. “Well I’m expecting Blackreach to be crawling with falmer, so we’ll have to fight our way through most of it, along with dwemer constructs. It won’t be easy but there are four of us, Teldryn’s very good in a fight. Lucien perhaps not so much, but he _is_ very gifted with dwemer technology.”

He gets a noise of assent. “And for what purpose are we going to Blackreach?”

Oh right, he hasn’t actually explained the whole plan to Miraak. He sums it up as best he’s able: about the elder scroll, and how it will help him learn Dragonrend, which will be the key to defeating Alduin once and for all.

“Are you required to read the _kel -_ elder scroll?” Miraak asks cautiously, at the end of the explanation.

“I won’t be reading it, no, just taking it back to the time-wound,” Chrysanthe assures him. And then, because he _does_ have a reasonable worry that Miraak might be drawn to something that can literally rewrite past mistakes: “You have to promise me that you won’t read it either. I know the temptation, but-“

Miraak holds up a hand. “They drive men mad. Even Hermaeus Mora would not read them, though he schemed for many ways to circumvent it. I am ambitious but not stupid. My worry was that _you_ would try to read it.”

He quirks a smile. “Is that you calling _me_ stupid?”

Miraak tuts. “Not at all. But it would not surprise me if Paarthurnax bid you read the _kel_ and not tell you any of the dangers.”

“He’s a bit nicer than that.”

“I will believe it when I see it.”

He leans forward at that, seizing on the opportunity. “Would you like to? See him, I mean. And not try to attack or use Bend Will on him?”

“I would have no reason to if he is as peaceful as you say,” Miraak replies, albeit tentatively. “You wish us to meet?”

“It would be interesting. The Greybeards are closely tied with the Dragonborn, training and advising them. They were formed long after your time though, I’m curious how they would respond to you.”

“With great caution,” Miraak answers him easily, “I would not consider them allies, but not enemies either, as long as they treat us both with respect.”

“Once we’ve recovered the elder scroll we’ll be taking it to them anyway,” Chrysanthe notes. Then: “I have some other allies you should meet as well, the Blades.”

The other makes a thoughtful noise, “You wear their armour, correct? Akaviri design. They are close allies then?”

He winces, “Don’t hold this against me, but I wear it because I like how it looks. I wouldn’t call the Blades close allies, and they’re diametrically opposed to the Greybeards who’ve been much kinder to me. Even so, at the moment the world needs more dragon hunters than it does pacifists, so I’ve been helping to restore the Blades to… well, maybe not their former glory, but something.”

“Closer to their former glory than you might think,” Miraak points out, “They were dragon hunters first, then they abandoned this in favour of protecting the Septim emperor’s bloodline. Now they are back to dragon-hunting again. Have they sworn loyalty to you?”

“No. Well, yes. Sort of.” Chrysanthe sighs. “Delphine serves me in theory, but in practice…”

Recognition crosses Miraak’s face, “Delphine?”

“Yes, _that_ Delphine. The one who occasionally annoys me.”

“I remember. If she truly claims to serve you she should not cause you aggravation. You could remind her of this.”

He just shakes his head. “I can’t see that working out too well. It doesn’t really matter, she can be bossy but that’s what makes her a good leader. I’d rather she was competent than obedient.”

Miraak looks like he might argue this, but then he relents, shoulders slipping back into relaxation, “Your decision. If she takes exception to me however, I will take exception back.”

“I’m hoping she’ll be pleased at another Dragonborn fighting against Alduin,” Chrysanthe says, but something in him still doubts. Delphine has told him before that he shouldn’t be afraid to seize power, like Tiber Septim did once. Theoretically she should get on with Miraak, who also believes in seizing power, even if he once seized altogether too much of it. The Greybeards ought to take more issue with Miraak, but he trusts the Greybeards to at least be civil, which Miraak will then reciprocate. He doesn’t entirely trust Delphine to do the same, nor does he trust Miraak to turn the other cheek. “We can check in with them once we have the Dragonrend Shout. That was part of the Blades’ prophecy so they might have an idea of how we actually _use_ it, once we know it. Alduin is currently flying across Skyrim waking up the dragons, he’s hard to pin down.”

“I wonder if it’s truly as simple as knocking him from the sky and killing him,” Miraak muses quietly, “In my time defeating Alduin was unthinkable. He claimed to be the first-born of Akatosh and seemed to hold just as much power. This seems… too easy.”

“I agree, but we’re not going to know until we actually try it. And if we don’t, well, the world ends.”

Miraak gives a disconcerted _hmnn_ but says nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Hi los dii -_ as Chrysanthe translated, does indeed mean 'you are mine'
> 
> -
> 
> I'M BACK, BABY! As a disclaimer I'm likely to put out infrequent updates because the writer's rush that resulted in the first 100k (geez) of this story has now passed but I do plan to keep updating this fic. It's sort of turned into my magnum opus, so I do want to see it finished, but we have so long to go.
> 
> So, uh, here. Have a whole chapter of smut that does not advance the main plot. But next chapter should get things back on track!


	18. Chapter 18

Chrysanthe doesn’t sleep well, that night they spend in Ancestor Glade. Too busy thinking about… well, a lot. Their intimacy still weighs on his mind, namely all of Chrysanthe’s hopelessly contradictory reactions to it, but a more pressing issue is the discussion afterwards on what to do next. Miraak told him he didn’t want to sit idle. There’s a World-Eater to deal with so they’ll be the furthest thing from idle, but when they defeat Alduin (and it must be _when_ and not _if_ \- _if_ he fails, he won’t have to worry about any of this, because the world will end) what happens afterwards?

 _A world that does not know me will become a world that assuredly does_ , Miraak once told him. He knows Miraak wants to make his mark on the world, and he can’t fault him for it. After all Hermaeus Mora erased his name from the history books, turned a living legend into a jealously-kept secret. Of course Miraak wants to undo all of that. And he is the most dragon-like of Dragonborn, so of course he wants to accrue power and influence over all around him.

Chrysanthe knows he can’t stop those ambitions any sooner than he can stop the sun from rising. Nor does he necessarily want to; Miraak is free now, he can do as he likes. But he’s also aware that the First came from a particularly oppressive chapter of history, and it’s not one he wants to see Skyrim return to. What if Miraak slips back into that role, becomes yet another tyrant? He has to make sure it doesn’t happen, that he achieves _fame_ and not _infamy._ That he becomes someone people follow out of awe and not fear. But it’s such a balancing act, influencing Miraak’s actions without outright telling him how to behave, because Miraak does not respond particularly well to any infringement on his freedom. Can it even be done? Will Miraak listen to what Chry has to say?

His eyes flutter shut. In his mind, he summons the whisper of Idgrod’s voice: _For you - and you alone - he will try._

_He will try._

_He will try._

A shaky exhale, one that causes Miraak to stir next to him, but not wake. Chrysanthe’s eyes flit over the prone form, so peaceful in slumber, so fearsome awake. Whether the prophecy is at all accurate, he has to believe that ultimately, things will work out. He’ll only worry himself to death otherwise.

-

Restless dreams chase him into the next morning. He keeps them to himself as they pack up the camp. Miraak doesn’t seem to notice, too busy stretching in enjoyment of his new-found mobility; soaking in the hot springs evidently helped with the last of his aches. He is indeed fully recovered now, and it’s time to move on. The honeymoon period, as it were, is over.

They leave Ancestor Glade as they found it, stop by Falkreath to resupply, and then return to Lakeview to pack for the journey to Winterhold. Sahrotaar will take them straight to the College steps of course, but by his estimation they’ll arrive in the late afternoon – too late in the day to head out for Alftand, which means entertaining themselves until nightfall. Chrysanthe is fine to read or cloudwatch the hours away but Miraak is downright fidgety after his week of recovery. He has the same stirring in his blood that Chry possesses, of course, but he wonders if it might actually be more owed to the time in Apocrypha, where idleness soon slipped into apathy, and apathy into atrophy. For someone to stay so sharp-minded after literal millennia, he thinks that Miraak perhaps never had a day unoccupied before now.

He is also, frankly, a little worried about leaving Miraak somewhere with nothing to entertain him but a giant library. The man might start burning books.

“Something to do,” he muses out loud once he’s explained this to Miraak, who gave the predicted sigh at the notion of another action-less day. “We could walk around the town?” The questioning inflection gives this away as a shoddy idea. There’s nothing to _see_ in Winterhold, on account of most of it being lost to the ocean. The rest of the place is just derelict buildings the Jarl hasn’t got around to rebuilding (too busy whinging about how unfair life is, in Chry’s opinion). Unfortunately he’s stumped for other ideas.

Miraak steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “What if we make a stop along the way?”

Well, there’s an idea. “I don’t see why not. Is there somewhere you want to go?”

“Bromjunaar,” Miraak says, the atmoran word rolling easily off his tongue. Chrysanthe can’t think where that is, though it does have a ring of familiarity to it, somehow. Where has he heard it before? But then at his puzzlement Miraak clarifies: “I believe you now know it as _Labyrinthian._ ”

His eyes widen with recognition: “I remember! It used to be a city in your day, if I recall?”

“The biggest city in Skyrim, and the centre of the Dragon Priesthood. The temple itself was led by a priest called Morokei.”

Just hearing that name makes Chrysanthe wince. Miraak notices, so he clarifies: “We’ve met. I’ve fought him, is what I mean to say. I have his mask somewhere here.”

Funny, even with his mask on he can tell Miraak is giving him an incredulous look: “You’ve fought him? And defeated, if you are still alive. Where is the mask? Let me see.”

He’s not sure whether to be wary or glad that he can’t see the nuances of Miraak’s expression, as he retrieves his Miscellaneous Loot Box from the corner of the room and sets it on the bed. And then- “Wait hold on, I’m not sure which mask is actually his. Let me…” he tips the box as gently and respectfully as he’s able, but still winces when the multitude of metal masks jangle together noisily.

Miraak is absolutely dead silent.

“You have slain _all_ of them?” he asks at last.

He doesn’t sound angry per se, more like completely baffled. Chrysanthe fidgets, not sure which direction this conversation is heading: “I’ve been all over Skyrim looking for word walls. A lot of them had a dragon priest attached. I haven’t come across any for a while so I assume that… that this is all of them, yes.”

Miraak holds his nervous gaze for a second before looking down, and counting off each mask: “Vokun, Volsung, Krosis, Otar, Rahgot - Morokei is here, he is the moonstone mask - Hevnoraak, then you have the Solstheim priests… _Nahkriin_. You are missing Nahkriin. But all of the others are here… you have really defeated every single one of them?”

Chrysanthe fidgets more. “Are you upset, because I really can’t tell.”

Miraak huffs, the sound chased by the metallic ring of his mask, and then grabs it at the bottom so he can push it back over his head, revealing the face beneath. He’s frowning, but it seems more a frown of disbelief rather than displeasure. “I am not upset, I am _impressed_ ,” he says, albeit sounding more exasperated than anything else.

“Even though you knew all of them in life?”

“They were colleagues. Rivals, in a sense. Not friends,” Miraak explains dismissively, “The closest were those priests of Solstheim, who joined my cause - but as soon as Mora took me they fell back into grovelling loyalty to Alduin. I do not mourn their passing, if that is what worries you.” He looks again at the collection of glinting masks spilled across the bed. “ _Laat_ , this is remarkable. Every priest was formidable in combat. They _were_ formidable, yes?” he adds, as though unsure if they in fact were, to have all been defeated by one person.

“They all gave me a lot of trouble, yes. Not as much as you.” He sees Miraak’s mouth quirk at that, even if it isn’t the subtlest form of flattery. He glances again at the opalescent mask he now remembers Morokei wearing while he chased Chrysanthe around the room flinging lightning bolts at him. “Morokei was one of the harder ones, though. And he spoke to me - none of the other priests did that.”

Something troubled flits across Miraak’s face, “And said what?”

That entire conversation was bizarre, now he recalls it. “He mistook me for you,” Chry admits, not sure of the implications of this. Evidently neither is Miraak given his puzzled expression. “Once I was face-to-face with him he realised I was someone else, but even before then he _knew_ , somehow, that we were linked. And then he tried very hard to kill me.”

“I imagine he did,” Miraak murmurs, leaning back again. “Morokei’s loyalty to the dragons was unmatched - there is a reason he sat at the capital temple of the priesthood. He disliked me from the start since I was a threat to his power, and my eventual defiance enraged him. If he had defeated you…” it’s so rare to see Miraak look genuinely disturbed that it gets Chrysanthe’s hackles up as well, “He would not have killed you. Not immediately.”

The implications are unpleasant. Chry reaches over and gently flicks at Morokei’s mask, causing a little _ding!_ against the polished stone. “He can’t come back again, right? He’s not going to suddenly reform in my house one day?”

“I would not have thought so. If the mask was left at the temple for a few centuries perhaps, but not while it sits here in your house.” To which Miraak then adds: “In a box, in the corner. _Silgron, why_ do you keep them in a box in the corner?”

“Well what else am I supposed to do with them?” Chrysanthe retorts defensively, “It’s not right to sell them and I’m definitely not going to wear them.”

“Display them? Hang them from the walls?”

“You don’t think that’s a bit morbid?”

That gets a laugh out of Miraak at least. “I think it is an impressive trophy collection and you should show it off.”

“Show it off to who? They’ll just be looking over me while I sleep.” He sighs, “You know I have a lot of other junk in here too. Legendary swords, that sort of thing. Maybe one day I’ll open a museum.”

-

They have a plan, and their belongings packed. Tentatively he leaves the Rueful Axe in his home; he’s worried about it being stolen in his absence, but carrying it with him is a lot of extra weight, particularly through the possible vastness of Blackreach. So it remains propped up against the wall, he ensures every window is well-locked, and Miraak lays down a few runes he calls ‘adequate defence measures’. Chrysanthe suspects they will obliterate anyone who tries to force entry into his innocuous little cottage.

“When Sahrotaar has carried us I will instruct him to return to the lake and guard this place as well,” Miraak says, “If there is trouble to be had, he will surely eat it.”

Chry snorts, “Does he like the taste of necromancer? Because they keep turning up at the shrine nearby.”

Speaking of, they walk down to where the aquatic dragon was last seen. It looks to Chrysanthe’s eye like he isn’t here now, the lake sitting as peacefully as all lakes do. The dawn sunlight shimmers on the surface, the birds chirping out their morning chorus.

“ _Sahrotaar_ ,” Miraak calls.

Immediately the glassy-still water becomes frothing white as the dovah surges upwards. The nearby birds scatter, as does just about every other form of wildlife in the vicinity. Several unfortunate fish are thrown clean out of the water with the ascent, flopping helplessly on dry land; Chrysanthe gingerly picks one up and tosses it back in.

“I come, _thuri_ ,” the dragon intones, displacing water with each lurching step towards the shore, “What do you ask of me?”

“I require flight back to Winterhold, where we were before,” Miraak proclaims, “We will be stopping at Bromjunaar on the way, only briefly.”

“As you command,” is the rumbled response. Water sluices off crystal-blue wings as Sahrotaar stretches out, then lowers himself for the two to climb on. Miraak takes point, naturally, and Chrysanthe settles in behind him. He likes to think he’s a little more dignified on their ascent this time, though he still clings to Miraak hard enough for the man to notice going by his pleased hum. But he’s getting used to this flight thing, sort of.

As a bonus he has his furred cloak this time as well, so it’s not so bitterly cold once they take to the skies. That lets him properly enjoy the view this time around, watching in fascination as the world whirls by underneath him. Being so far up is _magnificent_. If he closes his eyes, feeling only the cold wind on his face and the flapping motions of Sahrotaar all around him, he can almost imagine that he’s the one flying instead.

-

They land with a spray of snow outside of Bromjunaar - or Labyrinthian. Renamed after a mage (Shalidor? He thinks it was Shalidor) built a labyrinth in the place. It was already abandoned by that point, fallen during the Dragon Wars, and then Shalidor’s use for it faded from memory as well. Now it is well and truly abandoned, less ruinous than the other ancient sites Chrysanthe has come across, but there’s not a soul here except the undying draugr within. The sky in Falkreath was blue when they set off but here it’s the palest grey, and the snow falls heavy and languid. It only adds to the bleakness of the place, the sense that there is nothing here left alive.

Miraak takes the lead in exploring the place. His boots crunch against the frosted steps, gait a little slower and more careful than usual, like he might actually be walking on glass. He pauses at the last step to look around the site; even without seeing his face Chrysanthe can almost follow his gaze, how it rakes over every silent structure. He can’t get any more of a read on him than that, however - normally he looks at the man’s shoulders as an indicator of how tense or relaxed he is, but they’re simply squared, carefully neutral maybe. It’s times like this that he wishes he had the transparency the telepathy afforded him.

Well. There’s nothing he can do for now except follow Miraak’s lead. “Where should we start?”

There is a moment’s thoughtful silence. “The temple,” Miraak says at last, “I wish to see what became of it.”

Chry accompanies him to the ceremonial door, still unlocked from the last time he was here. Between them is the same sort of hush one holds when looking around a museum… or a graveyard. The temple face is an imposing and impressive structure, and remarkably intact; he can’t help but notice how the building looms over the rest of the complex, a constant reminder of the dragon priest’s power. At certain times of the day it must have cast half the place in shadow. 

Inside the first chamber contains only a scattering of bones. The first time he was here Chrysanthe remembers he marched straight past them, once it was clear they weren’t stirring to attack him. Chasing in Arch-Mage Aren’s footsteps for the Staff of Magnus, he was far too focused on the task ahead to pay much attention to his surroundings. Now he follows Miraak mutely and drinks it all in. Where are these skeletons from? Do they date back to the merethic era? Are they people Miraak may have seen living, once?

From the first chamber is a great cavern where a reanimated dragon skeleton pulled itself from a loose-soiled grave to fight him and Lucien. The skeleton is still there, intact, unmoving - given enough time he wonders if the bones will shudder to faux-life again as skeletons eventually do after being scattered. For now, it is still. Miraak approaches, reaches out to run a finger along the yellowed bone. He speaks a name with gravitas and something like reverence: “ _Naakalun_.”

“You knew this dragon?” Chrysanthe asks. He’s a little awed, he has to admit. “I’ve never understood how it came to be just a skeleton like this. When I fought it before, it didn’t give me a soul.”

“It wouldn’t have done,” Miraak murmurs, but the words seem so loud somehow, in this silence, “I took his soul, when Bromjunaar lived.”

His jaw nearly drops, “ _You_ killed him?”

The priest shakes his head, “Not directly. That would have been unthinkable. He clashed with a rival dovah over the city and met an end. Dovah fought like this sometimes - if one fell Alduin would arrive to revive them and both dovah would sulk for a time. But I was visiting Bromjunaar when Naakalun fell, and his soul flowed to me, leaving only bones behind.”

And Chrysanthe realises: “That’s how you knew you were Dragonborn?”

“Somewhat. It was already known I had a dovah soul, because I could use the _Thu’um._ But no-one knew I could take the essence of fallen dragons - not even me - until the day I took Naakalun, entirely by accident.”

 _The first ever dragon soul taken by a Dragonborn._ “How did Alduin react? He must have realised you were a threat at that point.”

“He didn’t know,” Miraak shrugs, a nonchalant contrast to Chrysanthe’s shock, “He turned up later and could not beckon Naakalun’s soul, but he knew not where it had gone. People told him of strange lights surrounding me, but I denied everything - admitting it would have been my execution - and it was my word against theirs. Morokei suspected me but he had no proof. Our rivalry was well-known; I spun his accusations as attempts to overthrow me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you got away with that.”

Miraak makes an assenting sort of noise, “I had to be very, very careful for a long time afterwards. Ingratiate myself with Alduin, convince him I was slavishly loyal. But for the first time there was a way that the dov could be killed for good - after that came…” he gestures vaguely, “Everything else.”

“So _you’re_ the reason he’s just bones,” Chrysanthe murmurs, looking at the skeleton - at _Naakalun,_ “That’s… wow. Just wow. I wonder what other things I’ve interacted with that you had a hand in?”

“Not too many, I would imagine,” offers Miraak, “Solstheim was my domain, not mainland Skyrim. But the priesthood convened at Bromjunaar, hence why I know this place well.”

“I can’t imagine how strange it is to come back.”

Miraak gives a low laugh, but it’s more a sad sound than anything else. “No. I don’t suppose you could.”

They fall back into silence as they tread the rest of the hall - a hall that once held Naakalun the living dragon, he assumes, and muses on whether Morokei himself performed the necromancy that turned him into an undead guardian. They tread down the stairs to find the etched tablet that must have once marked an entrance proper to the semi-underground city:

_Hail All - Brave City Bromjunaar_

_Forever These Walls Shall Stand_

_May Enemies See Her Majesty_

_May All Quake to Behold Her._

“The walls stood but the people did not,” Miraak murmurs lowly, “If you had seen this place in its day, _Dovahkiin_. It teemed with such _life_. Now look at it.” A slow sigh. “It has been so long since I walked Skyrim. I knew the world had changed greatly in my absence, but coming here…”

“Brought it home?” Chry finishes for him softly, and receives a wordless nod in return.

He does eventually speak though: “I still wish to see the inner sanctum. It should be further down.”

He’s still not sure if picking through the past like this is the best idea. Obviously the world has moved on without Miraak, an inescapable truth that he would have to face one day, but it can’t be pleasant to see all of this desolation. It’s Miraak choice though, all Chrysanthe can do is accompany him. And despite everything he finds himself fascinated - it’s one thing to know, abstractly, that his other half is a four thousand year old dragon priest, but it’s another to hear him speak of what the world was like literal millennia ago. He thinks about how often he’s followed in Miraak’s footsteps without realising it - maybe not on the mainland, but he’s been all around Solstheim too, he’ll have visited places Miraak went. Touched things he touched in ancient times. That’s mind-blowing.

His musing is interrupted, though. They descend yet another set of stairs and cross the doors that lead lower down, towards the inner sanctum that is now more of a chasm, when Miraak stops almost mid-stride, shoulders hunched. A low murmur spills from his lips: “He’s still here.”

Despite the lack of names, Chrysanthe knows at once who he means: “Morokei? Even though I killed him?”

“Not… physically here, perhaps,” Miraak admits, but he’s still looking around warily like he’s expecting Morokei to materialise from one of the walls. “This is his temple. His very being is burned into the stones. We-” a hiss through gritted teeth, a sound of raised hackles, “-We should not linger. Loathe as I am to be chased away by the shadow of my former enemy. Proceeding further would be unwise.”

The words set Chrysanthe’s teeth on edge, has him flinching at everything in his peripheral too. This is where Morokei started speaking to Chrysanthe - and he spoke to him all through his descent, long before they came face to face. As though he really did inhabit every pillar and pebble. “He’s not going to suddenly pop into existence or anything though, right?”

“Not that, but there are… _whispers_ , or the echoes of whispers once spoken. They might seep into the mind, plant some seed of downfall,” Miraak explains. It’s all vague terminology but the tone with which he says it is enough to convince Chrysanthe to retreat. It helps that Miraak is already moving back up the stairwell. “I had hoped to explore the place in full but it will have to wait. When I have devised a mental ward, perhaps. Come, let us leave.”

When they’re back in the crisp outside air he wonders if the relief he feels is an escape from some unseen curse, or purely psychosomatic. Miraak looks visibly better, though there’s still a tenseness lingering at his shoulders even as they leave the ceremonial entrance to Labyrinthian well behind them, landing back at the central area.

“So the temple is off-limits to me, for now,” Miraak declares. His tone is brisk and business-like; if there’s any sorrow to be had he’s hiding it well. “The rest of the place still stands. Have you looked around the other buildings?”

“I haven’t.” The last time he came to Labyrinthian was the mad dash for the Staff of Magnus. He arrived and left in a hurry without time to explore further, and hasn’t been back since – the memory of Morokei kept him away perhaps.

“Then we should search those as well.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am sure,” Miraak says, but he’s already picked a direction in which to start walking, ushering Chry to follow.

Something feels a little off to him. He can accept that Miraak might want to hide his sadness, especially if he’s feeling overwhelmed by it - his counterpart is forthright about passion, anger, intensity, but anything that might be perceived as weakness? He can see why Miraak would cover this with bravado, even if Chrysanthe is his only audience. But he’d sort of assumed Miraak came here to find closure, to mourn the world he knew. He saw a bit of that in the temple, but now it feels almost more like he’s searching for something. They pick through some of the draugr ruins, and the little outbuildings where trolls have made their home, until eventually Miraak comes to a stop on one the bridges and simply _looks_ at everything.

“I think,” he says at last, “This place is still livable. It will take some effort to clear all the draugr, but I can set my cult to the task. This could be my base, and I could restore Bromjunaar to what it once was. And ideally chase away that gimmicky moniker of _Labyrinthian_ as well,” he adds a touch dismissively.

Chry’s eyes widen. So there _was_ another reason beyond reminiscence. “You want to base the cult here? You’ve said before you wouldn’t occupy another priest’s temple.”

“I would not, for the very reason we just encountered. Dragon priests do not simple _die,_ they are cursed to eternal servitude. I would have to find some way to cleanse the place. Or perhaps simply condemn it altogether, seal it off and occupy the other buildings.”

Clinging to the past. His midnight musings declared this a bad idea, something that would push Miraak into resuming his role as a tyrant priest from a brutal age. “I’m sure you could rebuild,” he starts, trying not to let too much apprehension bleed into his voice, “But maybe it’s best to think of this as something gained, rather than something lost? A fresh start. A chance to create your own Bromjunaar somewhere else.”

His stomach twists with disappointment when Miraak shakes his head: “A noble sentiment, but easier said than done. Bromjunaar was centuries in the making and I do not have the luxury of time. It is far simpler to build on something old than start completely anew.”

“Simpler but less rewarding surely? It wouldn’t be yours.”

“Would it not? Who is here to dispute my ownership?” Miraak gestures at their empty surroundings. “This place belongs to no-one. It may as well belong to me.”

“It belongs to Morokei, you said-“

Miraak interrupts him easily, “Only the temple-“

“-Which is the most important part,” Chrysanthe interrupts right back, “What’s the point of holding Bromjunaar without the centrepiece? You really want to share your space with a ghost you can’t get rid of?”

It’s rather telling that Miraak doesn’t have an immediate retort for him. “I could cleanse the temple,” he says at last, tone sullen to Chry’s ears.

“Can you be sure? Completely sure that Morokei won’t still influence the place?” Miraak told him this once: _I do not want another priest whispering to my cult, they will turn them again me_. Ironically this was in response to Chrysanthe suggesting Miraak should reside in one of Skyrim’s abandoned temples. Originally he formed this argument to convince Miraak to leave Solstheim and avoid conflict with the Skaal, but the more he thinks on it the worse an idea residing in a dragon temple really is. He’s never going to get Miraak to leave his old ideals behind if he’s living in the past. “You said he could plant a seed of downfall, and you _know_ your downfall was high on his list of priorities. That means this place is inherently hostile towards you.”

Miraak folds his arms across his chest, tapping his foot sharply. But he hasn’t answered, and Chry thinks that might just mean he’s won this argument. It’s a rare victory over his counterpart, and he can’t quite help but feel a sort of satisfaction at it.

The feeling is swiftly cut short, for when Miraak next speaks the tone is _upset_. Any lingering smugness squirms into something unsettled – he hadn’t intended to provoke that reaction, not at all. “You must understand, this place is… significant to me. Aside from visiting often this is where I first learned what my dragon-soul could do to the dov. It is where I learned I could be _free_.”

“I-“ ohh no. Now he just feels unkind. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Miraak glances up warily. “I didn’t mean to trivialise. But I really, really do think something new would be better. Your temple was significant to you too and you agreed to leave that behind – it’s important to keep moving forwards, not backwards.”

“I agreed only at _your_ behest,” Miraak comments lowly. There’s just a certain undertone to it, something… not angry, but that could grow into anger if allowed to flourish.

 _Careful_ , something in him whispers. This is a tipping point if ever he’s seen one.

“I want-“ _Rephrase._ It’s too confrontational. “I wish for everyone to know you. To see who you _are_ , rather than remember who you _were_. They can’t possibly remember, because that world you inhabited doesn’t exist anymore - and I know that’s hard to hear and I can’t possibly imagine what it feels like… but that is the truth, isn’t it?” he gestures all around them, “This place was magnificent, but no longer. No-one visits here, no-one pays respects. No-one even knows its original name. I don’t want that to happen to your legacy too.”

“It won’t,” Miraak insists, “I will not fade away, not a second time.”

“But if you chase history aren’t you doomed to repeat its mistakes? So start something new, without any precedent. Don’t bind yourself in the trappings of the past now.”

“I don’t have the time or resources to build from nothing,” Miraak repeats. He sounds exasperated but that’s better than that slowly-simmering resentment of before.

“We’ll acquire them. When Alduin is dealt with, that’s what we’ll do next. I’ll help, however I can. I’ll be with you-“ he takes a breath here, whispers from a Morthal wisewoman echoing in his mind, “-I will be with you until the end of days. And everything that I do, will be for you.”

If there was ever a way to soothe a dragon. Miraak briefly averts his gaze - a rarity - before looking back and speaking in a low rasp: “Fine. No, I do not _agree_ -“ he adds swiftly at Chrysanthe’s palpable relief, “-But I will consider what you have said, and keep looking for a suitable location to house my cult. I make no promise that I will not return to this one. Understand that I must balance idealism with practicality.”

“I know,” Chry admits, “It’s just, your first instinct was to _not_ settle on dragon priest territory, and I think you were right. We can find somewhere better, I’m sure of it.”

“We will see,” Miraak says. But even with lingering doubts, getting him to budge on the issue even just a little is a win by Chry’s standards. One more step away from repeating the sins of the past. One more nudge away from the path of cruelty.

-

With Miraak agreeing not to settle in Bromjunaar Chrysanthe is keen to leave the place before he changes his mind again. But there is still something here: “You know we haven’t looked around Shalidor’s maze yet.” Even when the Magnus business was finished he never returned to give it a go. He was a little too intimidated to, truth be told. Now that Miraak is here though… “Would you like to try finishing it? While we’re here?”

Miraak gives a grunt. “I would ordinarily advise against it, but there is a Word Wall on the other side.”

“What, really?”

“If memory serves. It is irritating that we must run a gauntlet to reach it.”

By his recollection Shalidor built his maze to test would-be Arch-Mages. It was also in no small part to reinforce the idea that magic was… grandiose. Not for the common man. Which apparently worked, given Chry was deterred from even trying. Shalidor may have been lofty-minded but he _was_ brilliant, and so Chrysanthe expects the architectural wonder to take them the better part of a few hours.

It takes Miraak about _ten minutes._

“Done,” the man says lightly as they put down the dremora guardian waiting for them at the end of the maze. He breezed through like it was _nothing_ , Chrysanthe just followed him around with an increasingly dropped jaw. He must still be wearing the look, for Miraak sees it and scoffs: “Do not be so surprised. Shalidor was not half as clever as he thought he was.”

Chrysanthe on the other hand feels immensely dim. Not that he’d consider himself a puzzle aficionado but the way Miraak immediately grasped everything before Chry had even started to come up with a solution-

Hmm. Wait.

“Miraak,” he asks slowly, “Did you… already know the answers?”

“What do you mean?” is the casual – far _too_ casual – response.

Chr’s eyes narrow, “Shalidor’s work would have been of special interest to Hermaeus Mora. And I assume he wrote about his own labyrinth.” Miraak doesn’t immediately answer him, to which Chrysanthe jabs an accusing finger in his direction: “I bet he did. And I bet you read it. It’s from the First Era, you wouldn’t have been fed up of reading by then.”

“…Perhaps the schematics did make their way into Apocrypha, yes,” Miraak mutters at last, to which Chry gives a triumphant _Aha!_ “I _also_ occupied myself for several years designing far superior labyrinths, just so you know.”

“Of course you did,” Chrysanthe huffs, laced with laughter.

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“Not sarcasm.” Miraak’s ego is a little bruised he thinks, so he strides to close the gap between them, takes gloved hands in his and slips their fingers around each other. “I would absolutely not want to navigate any maze you designed. Aside from being fiendishly difficult I assume it would also be far more… death-inducing.”

“This maze has hardly any danger aside from the dremora,” Miraak says in a grumble, but his posture is settled and his fingers are firmly entwined with Chrysanthe’s, “What is even _the point._ ”

There’s a little more derisive commentary on Shalidor that Chrysanthe thinks might be less to do with genuine dislike and more to do with being grudgingly impressed with his work, but he wisely keeps that observation to himself. It comes to a close as they approach the Word Wall at the far end of the maze, which now Chrysanthe draws near has started its ethereal chant. He hasn’t actually picked up a new Word since – well, since he was in Apocrypha, and not for a little while before that, so he’d forgotten about that peculiar phenomenon.

“Can you hear it too?” he asks Miraak.

“Faintly. But it does not beckon me – I already know the Word from this one.”

He approaches, hair and cloak stirred by a gale of no origin that picks up with each step closer. There’s a string of text carved into the wall in jagged Dovahzul, an alphabet styled after the rake of claws. From the sentence a single word glows white-hot as he approaches, seemingly rising from the stone to burn into his vision. Everything is briefly white; all he can feel is the wind, and the song, and Miraak’s hand lingering between his shoulder blades, the warmth felt even through the metal of his cuirass.

“ _Maar,_ ” Chry murmurs as his vision fades back to normality, repeating the word whispered to him by ghostly voices of dragons and humans both. “Terror?”

“Terror,” the older Dragonborn affirms. He can hear something indescribably warm in his voice, _k_ _inship_. Even if it's... not a lovely Word to bond over. “You understand the meaning despite not knowing the language. I knew you would, but it is interesting to see it in practice.”

He gives a half-smile, “Well, it’s not like I can read the rest of the wall. I assume you can, though?”

“ _Qethsegol vahrukiv daanik fahliil kiir do gravuun frod, wo bovul ko maar nol kinzon zahkrii do kruziik hokoron_ ,” Miraak recites easily. The Dovahzul flows so elegantly from his mouth despite the shape of the words being so different to common, and something about it causes a shiver at Chry’s nape. The language feels so _familiar;_ it’s as though he should be able to understand the sentence, but unfortunately he does not. Luckily Miraak provides a translation: “It means, ‘ _this stone commemorates the doomed elf children of the autumn field, who fled in terror from the sharp swords of the ancient enemy_ ’.”

“…Please tell me that doesn’t refer to a literal elf child massacre.”

“No.” Miraak pauses. “Well. Probably not. I cannot say with certainty.”

-

One last place to look before they depart. This one is a small circular structure in the middle of the complex that Miraak seemed to previously gloss over, but now he points it out to Chrysanthe before they take their leave.

It’s one of those little sanctuary structures he sometimes comes across out in the wild. At the centre he finds a strange, ruined shrine of sorts with a carved dragon head at its centre, now chipped and featureless with age. At the feet of the shrine is a slumped skeleton with a dagger in its ribs and some strange wooden object in its hands. On the floor he spies a handwritten note, yellowed with age. He scoops it up to read, scanning the contents – something about a wooden mask that made the wearer disappear and reappear. Unsettling enough to the writer, who is presumably responsible for that knife wound, left the mask well alone. Sure enough when he reaches down to pluck the object from bony fingers, he finds himself faced with a carved wooden mimicry of the dragon priests masks.

“Do you recognise this?” he asks Miraak, showing it to him.

Miraak makes an interested noise, “It looks like… these are the masks we would wear to communicate with _Konahrik_. Leader of the dragon priests,” he adds before Chrysanthe can ask.

“I thought Morokei was the leader? He held the capital temple.”

Miraak shakes his head, “Konahrik held no temple of his own. It would have presented… a conflict of interest. The idea was that he was above _everything_ material and self-serving – his only job was to direct and adjudicate the priests.”

“Like a king of kings?”

“Or a slave of slaves. He had to answer directly to Alduin. It was not an enviable position.”

“I see,” he looks back down at the wooden mask in his hands, “This was for communicating with him?”

“There was a ceremony to it. The priests gathered and hung their masks on this altar-“ he gestures to the odd dragon shrine, which now he looks has several crumbling busts, like a display stand for masks. It must have been imposing in its day but now it’s half-collapsed, almost innocuously derelict. “-And donned a wooden mask instead. Because it made us all equal, you see. That’s also why we communed here and not inside the temple – it had to be on neutral ground. When we had done this, Konahrik would appear. I do not think I ever saw him outside of those times.”

He looks at the various half-collapsed busts. It doesn’t quite match how many masks he has stashed in his Miscellaneous Loot Box. “I feel like there aren’t enough stands for everyone.”

“None for the Solstheim priests,” Miraak points out. _Ah_ , that’s what it is. “The journey from Solstheim to Bromjunaar was long, the trip was not made often. We had our own communion altar on the island through which Konahrik would speak to us. Lost to time now. I assume this is the only one left.”

Another fascinating glimpse into long-lost history. Chrysanthe eyes the mask curiously, “The note said something about disappearing when it was put on.”

“I… do not remember that being part of the ceremony. I would advise against donning the mask, personally. There is no telling what it might do.”

Miraak is probably right.

He’s really curious though.

“I’m just going to try it once,” he says.

“ _Dovahkiin_ -“ Miraak starts with a note of warning, but Chrysanthe doesn’t hear what else he has to say. As soon as the wood touches his skin there’s a _pull_ , like he’s been whisked elsewhere.

He lifts his head, looks around wide-eyed as he finds himself stood in the sanctuary – but there are no crumbling walls, no cracked flagstones. Only a chamber softly lit by candlelight, and the altar before him, completely intact. Eight faceless busts look back at him, from which one could hang eight masks.

“Have I legitimately gone back in time?” Chrysanthe asks aloud. No-one answers (frankly, he would not have particularly enjoyed it if someone had). He turns at looks at the exit, but the wooden door he encounters seems… odd. Just slightly fuzzy around the edges.

He’s not sure this is real, he realises. Specifically he’s getting the same sort of feeling he gets when he communicates telepathically with Miraak, the sense that he’s occupying a space neither here nor there. That’s comforting, in a way. Aside from the magic being more familiar to him, time travel is sort of A Big Deal, he shouldn’t be able to do it by simply donning a mask.

 ** _LAAS YAH NIR!_** he thinks he hears, quiet and muffled like thunder in the far-off distance. He knows that Shout – Aura Whisper? Why is-

 _Divines,_ it’s Miraak searching for him. He really must have disappeared into thin air. Hastily reaching for the wooden mask he pulls it from his face, and with another sharp tug of sensation he’s back in Actual-Bromjunaar.

Then he nearly drops the damn thing when Miraak steps into his field of view and wraps his hands around Chry’s upper arms hard enough to bruise, “You _vanished_ ,” he hisses through his teeth.

“The note said I would!”

“And _I_ said not to put it on!” is the retort. Chrysanthe elects not to answer that, merely glancing down at the grip. Miraak looks too, then finally drops his hands and takes a step backwards altogether more nonchalantly. Much akin to a cat pretending it hadn’t just panicked. “Well, you appear unharmed. What happened, then?”

“I saw the shrine completely intact,” he explains, not quite able to keep the awe from his voice. “I’m not sure I stepped back in time exactly – it didn’t quite feel real, more like maybe… a copy? Of reality? Similar to our telepathy.”

“Strange. And no-one appeared to you? You were in no danger?”

“Not that I could see. It was just the altar, without any masks on it.”

Despite his earlier irritation, curiosity appears to have won Miraak over as well. “I wonder… if you placed every mask on each one, would Konahrik appear before you?”

“He’s long dead I presume.”

“Any more dead than the rest of the priests? Which is to say, not very.” It’s a good point. “Regardless, for me you disappeared completely. I could not touch you and when I tried to find your aura nothing happened. If Konahrik were to appear I expect he would be hostile, and I would be completely beyond helping you. So it is best not to tamper further.”

A pause.

“But you should take the mask with you,” Miraak adds, “To add it to your collection.”

That gets a smile out of him, “To the box you mean? As you say.”

While he’s stowing the mask inside his backpack he does wonder if Miraak might want to be the one facing Konahrik instead. It might bring some – well, closure is probably not the right word. _Catharsis_ , if Miraak was able to put down the former leader of the priesthood. But he doesn’t really want to encourage it; much like his counterpart he’s not keen on the idea of him being in peril and out of reach.

He has something else to bring up, besides: “You know I could hear you? When you Shouted for me.”

Miraak wordlessly reaches out, and touches his right hand. Nothing more needs to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s have a quick detour to Bromjunaar, I said. It won’t add that much to the wordcount, I said.
> 
> The Naakalun stuff is completely made-up lore, it’s not referenced anywhere in the game. I always wondered what the deal was with the dragon skeleton since the player doesn’t (I think?) come across anything like it elsewhere in the game. I think the devs just intended it as a cool unique boss without much further thought, but I figured it being a dragon Miraak had already absorbed was a neat explanation. He must have realised he could take dragon souls somehow, and I doubt he seriously thought about rebelling before that point.
> 
> The ceremony stuff with the wooden masks is also my own lore, just thought it was interesting I guess! Again, not sure the devs put much thought into who Konahrik actually was beyond a unique mask. They might not be a person at all; after all Konahrik does not show up to fight you (Miraak and Chry simply assume that they will) meaning it could be the mask never had an owner. But then it seems a bit weird that it has a name and an enchantment called _Konahrik's Privilege_ \- which also summons spectral dragon priests to fight for you, furthering my belief that it belonged to some sort of arch-priest.
> 
> I definitely intend for Chry and Miraak to return there, and maybe for one of them to don Konahrik’s mask, but I’m not yet sure which Dragonborn it should be. Chry so they can be a masked duo? Or Miraak so he can leave all the trappings of Hermaeus Mora behind? Decisions decisions…


	19. Chapter 19

They leave Bromjunaar behind, travelling via dragon to towards Winterhold. Again he must convince Miraak to land away from the town itself: _Yes, I know the Winterhold guards can’t hurt Sahrotaar. Yes he can kill them all with one breath, but I’d rather he didn’t. No, it’s not a long walk to the College from there. I’m only trying to be diplomatic._ He still gets grumbled at for making Miraak walk through Winterhold and up the bridge to the College instead of landing at the doorstep. Chrysanthe patiently ignores him.

The side-trip to Bromjunaar occupied the time he was looking to fill, so he arrives at the College late in the evening, just as planned. He’s therefore a little surprised when someone comes out to meet him - Faralda, the same altmer who intercepted him the first time he sought entrance to the College. He assumes this is because she spotted Miraak approaching as well, who admittedly looks like Trouble with a capital T. “Chrysanthe,” she says politely on her approach, gaze raking over the eldritch mask in particular. “Fine evening to you. Who is this curiosity you’ve brought with you?”

“This is Miraak, my companion,” he introduces, not without trepidation. “We’ve come to meet with Lucien. Can we come in or would you prefer Lucien came out here to meet us?”

(He’s _trying_ to be non-confrontational. Next to him he thinks he hears Miraak tutting).

Faralda looks torn. It’s evident to Chrysanthe that she doesn’t like the look of Miraak one bit, but she doesn’t want to blatantly refuse entry either. Whether that’s out of respect for Chry or simply to avoid stirring up any arguments is another matter. She settles on a somewhat flimsy excuse instead: “Well we wouldn’t normally allow visitors unless they demonstrate some magical aptitude…”

“Is that so?” Miraak cuts in before Chrysanthe can formulate a reply. The priest snaps his fingers once, a singular and staccato sound. On the ground between them, overlaid on the circular crest of the College, a purple-hued lightning rune abruptly flares into existence. “Is this sufficient?”

“Ah-” Faralda startles and stares down at the rune, which is perilously close to her feet. She regains her composure, continuing in a mutter: “Yes I suppose that is enough. I’ll just, ah, dispel that.”

She waves a hand over it, but nothing happens. Tries again, the air humming with cleansing magic, but the rune doesn’t fade.

“I must have cast a greater lightning rune instead of a regular one,” Miraak says airily, “My apologies, I will dispel it.” And does so with another snap of his fingers. “Then I should be permitted to enter your fine building, yes?”

“…Yes,” Faralda says, the word slow with reluctance. Miraak has of course done everything required to enter the College, but idle displays of power tend to make people nervous. She gives Chrysanthe something of a Look before turning and leading them both into the building.

As they cross the bridge, the wind drowning out any conversation, Chrysanthe falls back to nudge Miraak lightly with his elbow, “Please tell me you’re not going to cast explosive runes at everyone’s feet.”

“That would depend on how polite they are to me, wouldn’t it?” Miraak counters easily. “She came to no harm. I was merely _demonstrating my aptitude,_ as she put it.”

“She’s just being cautious. You’re aware you come across as very dangerous?”

A scoff, “As well I should. And she should show more respect to me, if she’s aware of what I can do.” He side-eyes Chrysanthe, who is staring flatly at him, and sighs. “She challenged me, I met the challenge. Now we are heading inside, rather than standing in the cold waiting for her to fetch the others. A better result, wouldn’t you say?”

Chrysanthe’s retort dies on his lips. This is not a debate he’s going to win, he can tell. Furthermore Miraak (annoyingly) does make a good point; Faralda would have been happier with the two of them staying outside the College, but they’d also be subjected to Winterhold’s bitter cold until she located Lucien and Teldryn. He can’t see Faralda making haste on his account either, it’s really only her duties as College doorman that she takes seriously. He must concede: “Yes, alright. A better result.”

Miraak hums in smug satisfaction. Chry grumbles, but with no real bite to it; fortunately he has a lot less pride than Miraak does, and so losing an argument doesn’t particularly sting him. As they enter the College grounds and its shelter from the howling winds outside he turns his attention to Faralda instead, making conversation to help lighten the tense atmosphere: “So how has everything been?”

“Oh, you know. Same old same old,” she replies, “Tolfdir is still acting Arch-Mage. About as good at the job as one expects. Sure I can’t tempt you into the position?”

“No thank you.”

He just about catches her sigh over the sound of the wind, but she doesn’t linger on the subject. “Lucien is the Arcaneum I believe. Not that he’s often elsewhere.”

He hates to ask for another errand, but- “Could you fetch him for me?”

“It’s hardly far,” She frowns, before something like recognition crosses her face. She leans in a little then, whispering conspiratorially: “Are you trying to keep your companion out of there?”

“I do not like libraries much,” Miraak answers for him.

She flinches a little and straightens up again. “Forgive me. You struck me as being very fond of libraries. I have the sense you’re quite hungry for knowledge.” Her eyes linger on the mask and Chrysanthe realises that _of course_ a College scholar would recognise the motifs of Hermaeus Mora. She thinks he’s a daedra worshipper, probably here to steal tomes on behalf of the prince. Which leads Chrysanthe to wonder if there are in fact any tomes here Mora wouldn’t have in his collection - somehow he doubts it.

“I’ve had my fill,” the priest answers pleasantly. Like most things Miraak, it has an edge of malice to it.

“Hm,” Faralda says, giving Chrysanthe another Look. He should start keeping a tally. “You keep very enigmatic company these days, don’t you?”

“Well he’s not the first masked mystery man in my repertoire,” Chrysanthe replies, tone forcibly jovial. This conversation feels like an argument waiting to happen. “Teldryn Sero is currently here yes? Dunmer, chitin armour?”

“Ah yes. The _mercenary_. We put him up in your old room. Which incidentally leaves us with no beds spare, _unfortunately_.”

They’ll have to go to the inn instead. Maybe that’s better, given the frosty reception he’s receiving here. Although, a thought occurs to him: “Wait, shouldn’t there be a bed free? Tolfdir’s.”

“Is occupied by Tolfdir himself, yes.”

“He’s acting Arch-Mage. He’s not sleeping in the Arch-Mage’s quarters?”

Faralda purses her lips, “He claims the bed isn’t as comfortable as his usual one. But I imagine he’s referring to the burden of leadership.”

He reaches out to touch her arm before she pulls the hall doors open, pausing her mid-motion, “So it’s sitting completely empty now? Is there any reason Miraak and I can’t stay there?”

He gets a quirked eyebrow at _Miraak and I_ but she doesn’t offer further comment. She does have a token protest though: “You weren’t interested in being Arch-Mage, I thought.”

He gives her a flat smile without much mirth to it: “Can I stay there or can I not, Faralda?”

He’s aware he’s held her gaze just a second too long when she suddenly averts her eyes as though cowed. “Yes, well. It _is_ empty, so I don’t see why not. Tolfdir is the one who’s permission you’d need but I can’t see him refusing.”

His fingers slowly pull away from her arm. He was cautious not to grip her, but even that light touch was more than he’s used to asserting, so he takes a placating step backwards. “Thank you. If you’d be so kind as to point Lucien my way, I’ll be out of your hair.”

He doesn’t get a sassy retort this time, just a stiff nod before she pushes the door open and heads through, towards the Arcaneum. Walking a bit faster than her usual gait, he notes.

He’s stirred from his thoughts by the warmth of a hand placed at his back and the press of a body to his side. “Well done,” Miraak murmurs in his ear.

He fidgets, “I was a bit too terse with her, I think.”

“She tested your patience and you responded,” it’s not often that Miraak adopts a soothing tone. The timbre of his voice makes it especially pleasant to listen to. “Standing up for yourself is not a bad thing. I would like to see it more often.”

Maybe Miraak has a point. And now they’ll be sleeping in the rather nice Arch-Mage’s quarters as opposed to in a cramped little bed at The Frozen Hearth. Tolfdir is likely already asleep so he won’t go bothering him now but he can always… retroactively ask for permission, tomorrow morning. It doesn’t surprise him to learn the elderly scholar hasn’t taken up residence there, he only took the title of acting Arch-Mage because literally no-one else wanted it. Including Faralda, for all her griping about Tolfdir’s lack of leadership.

Rather than stand out in the cold he enters the Hall of Elements, finding it unoccupied. He points out the door to Arcaneum so Miraak can either visit there or (more likely) avoid it like the plague, but otherwise lingers in the main hall. It’s late at night so obviously no-one is around, but the place feels especially empty, and somehow emptier still without the Eye of Magnus floating ominously in its centre.

Miraak relaxes against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, and surveys the place quietly. “I expected more people for such a grand building.”

Chry nods in agreement, “They don’t push for recruitment and only a few students come of their own volition.” Three as a matter of fact, not including him or Lucien. Even the Bards College, which is quite a bit smaller, has more students than it does teachers. “My understanding is that there’s a stigma against magic among Nords. Not as honourable as melee, or something.” A thought occurs to him, “Was it like that in your day? Magic bad, swords good?”

The man gives a low half-chuckle at the phrasing. “Not quite, but magic was for the clergy. A commoner would have lacked the resources to train in it. If modern nords are descended from atmorans who overthrew the priesthood, that’s likely where the dislike of magic users comes from.”

Sounds about right. “It’s that or because many nords don’t like elves, and magic is an elf thing.”

“Magic is _not_ an elf thing, but I see the misconception.” Miraak taps a finger against his arm thoughtfully. “Man and mer did not get along in my day either. Some things never change.”

Chrysanthe is about to sigh his agreement when the door to the Arcaneum scrapes open, and a familiar blond-haired imperial makes himself known, “Chry! You’re late, I was starting to get worried!”

“Lucien,” he can’t help but beam. It’s only been a week but it feels like an age without Lucien’s sunshine personality to warm him, “Sorry to worry you, we just made a detour on the way. Was Solstheim alright?”

“No problems at all. Teldryn and I were very careful.” Lucien approaches with particular enthusiasm in his step, eyeing up Chrysanthe and Miraak both. “And you? How was the flight? How was Falkreath? Is that a new cloak? Gosh you’re like some sort of prince. A really warm prince.”

He’s startled by a weight across his shoulders and he realises Miraak has draped an arm around him, fingers toying idly in the fluffy mantle, “You know he made it himself?”

It’s a very overt display of affection. Something in the back of Chrysanthe’s head goes _hmm._

“Of course you did. So talented,” The imperial sighs in fond exasperation, seemingly nonplussed by the arm, and instead turning his attention to the atmoran instead: “How are you Miraak sir? Have your injuries healed? It’s wonderful to see you up and about after everything!”

“I am well. Ready for this Blackreach - or _Fal’Zhardum Din_ , to call it by the Dwemeris name.”

Lucien makes the sort of squeaky noise that suggests Miraak has just said something massively exciting, and immediately starts peppering him with questions about dwemer. Chrysanthe gives him about three minutes before attempting a gentle extraction: “Alright, there’ll be plenty of time to talk when we’re down there. I want us to set off bright and early tomorrow so don’t stay up all night reading. Can you find Teldryn and tell him the same?”

“Oh he’s already in bed. Such an old man,” Lucien chirps, bouncing up and down on his heels with all the energy of someone who is absolutely not going to sleep any time soon, “But I’ll find him tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

“There’s no room in the Halls apparently. We’re in the Arch-Mage’s quarters.”

“ _Fancy_ ,” Lucien says with a ridiculous eyebrow-wiggle, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

-

Even though no-one’s currently occupying the Arch-Mage’s quarters it’s evident that someone comes up here every so often to dust the shelves, and the indoor garden at the centre appears to be well-maintained. There are still magelights drifting above it, casting the room in a soft blue-white glow until dismissed. The room is circular and spacious, with one half designed for _studying_ with bookshelves, desks and equipment for both alchemy and enchanting. The other half is for _resting_ , and chiefly features a wonderfully spacious bed that’s far more luxuriant than his own in Lakeview. Even if it meant being terse towards Faralda, he’s pleased to have strong-armed her into letting him sleep here. Not that she has any right to tell him where he can and can’t stay, it’s not like she owns the place.

Miraak has a quick survey of the room, albeit giving the bookshelves a wide berth, but has few comments to make. He’s been quieter than usual since Lucien departed from them, and something about it feels a little… heavy. The hour is late so they retire to bed sooner rather than later, sliding beneath the thick covers. Miraak is on his back, gazing up at the arched ceilings in contemplative silence. Maybe it’s just Chrysanthe, but his something’s-not-right senses are tingling. Eventually he has to ask: “Miraak? Are you… alright?”

He gets a cautious look as Miraak turns to look at him, “That is a vague question. What do you mean by ‘alright’?”

He’s not wrong, and Chrysanthe struggles to come up with any delicate elaboration. There’s nothing for it, he’s just going to have to be blunt: “Earlier when Lucien complimented me, I noticed that you put my arm around my shoulders.”

The great thing about Miraak’s mask is that it makes him hopelessly bad at hiding his reactions to things when he’s not wearing it. He sees the faint crease in Miraak’s brow, the way his eyes flit across Chry’s face to scour his meaning. “Did you dislike the gesture?” he asks, far too casually to be casual at all.

“I’m not at all opposed to gestures of affection,” Chry says, “But the timing was very particular. I just want to see if you were perhaps… uncomfortable? At him complimenting me?”

A scoff. “He merely paid attention to your new cloak, which is worth complimenting.”

“But…?” Chry coaxes. And when Miraak doesn’t respond, he says as softly as he can: “I just - Lucien is a friend. Only a friend. You know that, right?”

“I am aware,” is the terse response, “There were no displays of jealousy, were there? Simply a display of affection. One he did not even react to - the only one who has reacted is you, as a matter of fact.”

“Alright,” he placates gently, “I’m not accusing you of jealousy, I’m trying to stop any misconceptions before they arise, that’s all.”

A silence falls between them. It’s not an entirely comfortable one, but he knows further prying will result in him being snapped at. He reaches out to lay his hand on top of Miraak’s, which lays over his chest. The gold ring on his finger catches errant moonlight from one of the windows, glinting prettily. He sees Miraak’s eyes fall on it and stay fixated; a reminder, he hopes, of what they share. Funny that the ring represents this unspoken promise between them, even though Miraak wasn’t the one who gave it to him - but he is the reason it sits on Chrysanthe’s finger.

“…When you saw him,” the other Dragonborn says at last, sounding very much like he would rather not be talking about this, “Your entire face lit up.”

“In _friendship-_ ”

“I _know,_ ” Miraak interrupts exasperatedly, “I know. He’s no threat to us, _silgron_. I have known a few people who when asked what they most desire, respond with ‘a good book’, and he is one of them. He has no interest in you, or possibly anyone.”

“Nor I in him,” Chry reiterates.

“I know that too. But he makes you happy. Your heart gladdens to see him. You understand why I’d want that fondness only for myself? Even if it’s platonic, that’s _not the point_.” Chry’s mouth opens to respond but Miraak squeezes his fingers to silence him before continuing: “This is who I am, _Laat_ , and I know myself very well. If I stamp down on my envy it will make it worse. If I find an outlet, it will soothe it. So allow me an act of possessiveness every so often - it doesn’t mean I am unhappy.”

He gives a sigh, understanding and relief all balled into one. “Alright, I understand now. Thank you for explaining it to me.”

“It is just a… dovah thing. Dragons are naturally possessive over absolutely everything,” Miraak comments to the ceiling, rolling his shoulders in a half-shrug. He glances back over again. “I am surprised you’ve not experienced it yourself. I know you have a dragon in there _somewhere_.”

He smiles, “I’m not as in touch with it as you are with yours. I wish I was, sometimes.”

“It is a help and a hindrance in equal measure,” the other admits.

They fall into silence again, this time companionable and comfortable with an issue resolved. As a matter of fact Chrysanthe is just starting to relinquish today’s worries in preparation for sleep, when Miraak suddenly rolls over to face him: “A question, _Dovahkiin._ This is where the Arch-Mage would reside?” Chrysanthe nods at this, and so he continues: “And this Tolfdir is acting Arch-Mage. He has made no move to make the position permanent. And if he has declined to even move in here he must not want the job much.”

“I don’t think any of them do. For all Faralda complains about Tolfdir she hasn’t offered to take the position herself either.”

“Neither did you,” the other points out. “Why _did_ you decline? What happened to the last Arch-Mage?”

“He was killed by someone trying to usurp a powerful artifact from the College. I fought his killer and stopped the place from exploding in the process,“ he explains - under-explains perhaps but the Eye of Magnus stuff can get very long-winded if he gets into the details, and he’d rather not. “As for declining, I have no intention of leading a College of mages. I’m not even a mage myself.”

“That is blatantly untrue. You restored me from the brink of death.”

“But healing is different, isn’t it? I don’t fling fire at people, I don’t summon daedra, or any of that,” Chry retorts, “I’m a warrior with a bit of magic. I don’t know how wizarding works. Besides, they only offered me the job because there was no-one else to give it to.”

“I imagine they offered it because you saved all their lives. And a lack of _showy_ magic is no barrier to entry, particularly not when you’ve already displayed more competence in your little finger than the rest of them put together.” He has to suppress a snicker at that. Miraak smiles too, but continues: “I am serious, though. The ability to solve problems is rarer than you might think, so I am not surprised they’ve picked you out as a natural leader. They still seem keen to give you the role - if you accepted this place would be yours, and you would have a collection of mages at your bidding.”

“I wouldn’t call them _at my bidding_. I think I’d end up being at theirs.”

“Not if you were firm, like you were earlier,” is the easy reply. “It is worth your deliberation _._ The highest role in these places are often ceremonial, you would have underlings to manage your daily affairs. It would not interfere with your other priorities, so long as you visited every so often to remind them of their place.”

The wording is a little severe, but he admits that Miraak has a point. The College seems to be managing without someone at the helm; a strong leader would improve things, but he wouldn’t have to be constantly present. Not that he would consider himself a strong leader, but the bar appears to be quite low. There’s still the point about him not being a wizard, but now that he thinks on it… “Wouldn’t _you_ make a better Arch-Mage? You know much more about magic than me.”

Miraak snorts, “I could teach everyone here a thing or two. But you saw the suspicious reception I received - they do not trust me. They _do_ trust you, and that is a stronger starting position.” He reaches out to skim his fingers across Chry’s arm, “A lack of arcane knowledge would not hinder you. Remember that knowledge can be taught; practicality and common sense cannot.”

“I… ah…” he averts his eyes, “I don’t know. I’ll think about it more but - I don’t know.”

“Consider it. If nothing else it would grant you true ownership of these quarters, which are excellent,” Miraak suggests. And then because he has to ruin the moment: “This bed is particularly solid, it could withstand some very vigorous activity.”

“Oh my _gods_ ,” Chry groans aloud.

He gets a deep chuckle which is not fair, it’s just _not fair_ to have a laugh that makes his chest flutter like that. Miraak leans in to press their lips together, and Chrysanthe can’t even pretend to be annoyed. “I kid. Mostly. Goodnight, _silgron_.”

-

He meets with Lucien and Teldryn the next day, exchanging retellings of their time apart. Not very eventful for his two companions it turns out, meaning either Hermaeus Mora isn’t out for revenge against Lucien and Teldryn, or they managed to escape his notice. Either way, he’s pleased to see them unscathed, and to know that all his business on Solstheim is finally wrapped up. Teldryn takes note of the cloak and tells him he looks like an unlikely Jarl. He tells Teldryn he looks like a nix-hound.

He says his hellos to a few other members of the College that don’t annoy him, namely the students rather than the teachers. Checks in with Tolfdir to see how he’s handling things, gently declines an implied offer to become Arch-Mage. Miraak’s words from the night before cross his mind, but… he’s still not sure. There’s no point in accepting the position right now anyway, he can take his time in Blackreach to think about it some more. He doesn’t miss how hopeful Tolfdir looks when he answers with _I’ll think about it_ rather than a flat _No thanks_. Divines, the man really doesn’t want to be in charge, does he? Though he supposes with the entirety of the College nay-saying his leadership, he can see why.

With all that sorted they just need to get going already. There are only two horses between the four of them and Chrysanthe isn’t sure about leaving them tied up outside Alftand when he has no idea how long they’ll be, so he proposes leaving them in Winterhold and making the journey on foot. It takes them the morning to get there, cutting through the mountain pass overlooked by the Shrine of Azura. He can still see the statue looming from up high, the gaze benevolent - misleadingly so in his opinion, but he keeps those thoughts to himself. Partly for the company; Teldryn lays down some flowers in the snow as they cross the pass, well beneath the shrine itself but the sentiment is there. He does it quickly and without comment which is usual, Teldryn tends to keep his beliefs to himself. Azura is freely worshipped on Solstheim and even in Skyrim it’s somewhat accepted, but a daedric prince is a daedric prince - there will always be those who take exception to it.

Little else colours their journey except a few encounters with frost trolls and ice wraiths. There are four of them, each experienced in combat even if Lucien more tries to just not get in the way. He’s pleased to see no lingering injury on Miraak, although the man has been insistent of his return to full health for a while now, but he _was_ almost disembowelled just over a week ago. It reminds Chry of the way he recovered from his stint into Sunderstone Gorge, the place with the fire mages: laid in bed for a while with some bad burns, then back to normal as though nothing had happened. Apparently dragon constitution is a thing.

On the other side of the pass is the stretch of frozen land nestled between the crescent-shaped mountain range, where the snow is packed so thick it looks like a glacier floe. The dwemer ruin of Alftand stands out like a sore brass thumb in the landscape, surrounded by the small - and long abandoned - excavation camp of those who first found a proper entrance. He follows the efforts of their dig inside, through ice caves and tunnelled rock until it opens into the dwemer site itself. He can hear the _hiss_ and _thump_ and _screech_ of machinery, still operating mindlessly after all this time, that grows louder as they venture in further.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Lucien gushes. He never seems to tire of dwemer ruins despite having seen a dozen of them by now. He turns enthusiastically to Miraak: “And with someone who was _alive_ when the dwemer were! Did you ever have the opportunity to visit anywhere like this in your time?”

The atmoran shakes his head, “I did not. The dwemer were not much interested in the surface world and we knew better than to prod them. If we stumbled into each other when digging underground it went badly for us, their weaponry far outstripped ours. So we were careful to pick sites well away from theirs.”

“So all of this is new to you as well? What do you think of it?”

He casts an eye around the place “It is impressive. The dwemer were undeniably accomplished. Though it is not to my taste - I much prefer to see an open sky.”

Chrysanthe does as well. Dwemer ruins are a marvel but something about the heavy, solid stone feels oppressive to him, and before long he starts pining for open space and fresh air. He’s hoping that Blackreach will feel at least a little less claustrophobic given the alleged size of the place.

From the outside, with only a tower or two left standing in the snow, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Alftand was quite a small dwemer ruin. It is not. As a matter of fact it keeps going and going and going. The air gets warmer and wetter, steam from the machinery forming a thick mist along the floor. His fur cloak gets uncomfortable to wear so he removes it; he’d quite like to strip some armour too but he doesn’t dare while there are dwarven spiders and sphere guardians around every corner. He glances over at Miraak who must surely be sweltering in those robes and mask, but the man appears quite composed. Maybe he’s too distracted by talking with Lucien; the two of them have dropped back to chat while Chrysanthe and Teldryn take point. Over the constant din of automata he can hear their conversation, which mostly comprises of patients answers to Lucien’s endless stream of questions:

_Did you ever see a dwemer in person?_

_Unfortunately not. I saw drawings of them in Hermaeus Mora’s libraries, they were elven but full-bearded, which is unusual. Stocky, but not short as is the common misconception. But they were only drawings, I cannot say how accurate they were._

_What did the dragons think of them?_

_They were very wary. They did not like the idea that the dwemer might possess the weaponry to overthrow them. But the dwemer showed no signs of opposing the dragons, so they left each other alone._

_Did your people ever work together? I mean, did you help them dig, or did they help you at all?_

_Not as such. However there were some places their machinery touched the surface and gave off steam. People would build nearby to make use of the warmth. It was risky though - if the machinery was disturbed their metal servants would emerge and attack._

_Oh my goodness, that’s so interesting! Of course free heat would be a wonderful resource! See, this is the sort of thing that’s been completely lost to history, all the nitty-gritty details…_

“I am amazed he hasn’t told Lucien to shut up yet,” Teldryn mutters from next to Chry, sounding very much like _he’d_ quite like Lucien to shut up.

Chrysanthe gives him a halfway apologetic smile; he knew bringing the scholar to Alftand would result in an overdrive of enthusiasm. And Lucien’s enthusiasm is lovely but it is, well. Exhausting, at times. “It could be that he’s enjoying it. Dragons like a good conversation, maybe Dragonborn do as well?”

Teldryn just gives him a side-eye, “ _You_ are not half as inclined to jabber as this.”

To be fair neither is Miraak, Lucien is doing two-thirds of the talking and the atmoran is just providing answers. He keeps an ear cocked for whether he’s starting to sound terse or worn out but he doesn’t detect it, just the pleasant tones of someone invested in a conversation. Whether or not it’s a Dragonborn thing he does think Miraak enjoys talking, particularly if it’s talking about himself and his past. That makes sense, given how Hermaeus Mora tried so hard to erase it; putting that forgotten knowledge back into the world is likely very satisfying. The constant string of _fascinating!_ and _oh my gosh!_ and _this is so amazing!_ is probably doing wonders for his ego as well.

Just as he thinks they might have run out of dwemer-related topics they reach deep enough in Alftand that falmer start to appear. The numbers are few and easily beaten back between the four of them. But then that results in a new flurry of questions about the falmer, namely back when they were the snow elves:

_So what were they like, back then?_

_Pale, as though made from marble. And they didn’t age, or perhaps just did very slowly. Everything about them was… elegant. The atmorans - grudgingly - found them beautiful. They found us clumsy and oafish, I think._

_I’d read that the atmorans and snow elves lived in peace at first, is that true?_

_That was before my lifetime, when my people first came to Skyrim. Yes, the elves shared their lands with us at first, but before long there was border and resource friction. Finally they struck out at us._

_Was that the massacre at Saarthal? The Night of Tears, I believe it was called._

_Yes. Again, this was before my lifetime. The stories say that only Ysgramor and his sons survived, fled back to Atmora, and then returned with an army? That is not strictly accurate. More people survived and more settlements flourished elsewhere. But it was Ysgramor and his Companions who waged the bloodiest wars, in the name of vengeance. By the time I was born men and elves were firm enemies._

_Did you ever fight any?_

_I did. In a straight-forward fight a snow elf could not best an atmoran - we were far stronger - so they never fought fair. They had all kinds of underhanded tricks. As do today’s falmer, it seems._

“Speaking of today’s falmer,” Chrysanthe chimes in from the front, “They’re getting more numerous. Make sure you keep an eye out, I don’t want us to be ambushed.”

Much to his relief that causes the incessant questioning to die down a little as Lucien starts actually paying attention. It’s not too bad so far though, he would wager that the falmer and the dwarven constructs are clashing, which keeps each other’s populations in check. It still pays to be cautious - the bodies of Alftand’s tragic-fated excavation team are strewn all through the ruins, and those that ended in the hands of the falmer suffered the most before their end. It’s all very well that the snow elves were once beautiful and sophisticated but in the modern era they’re feral and violent.

Deeper down they go. It occurs to him at some point that they should stop for food, and because they’ve been walking pretty much non-stop since they set off this morning. So once they’ve cleared a reasonably large room without many places for anything to ambush them he calls for a break. Teldryn is the first to start rooting through his pack, evidently relieved at the pause. “Are you alright to sort food for you and Lucien?” Chry asks him.

“Sure boss, just gimme a minute to heat this stuff up.”

He directs Lucien to join Teldryn, which helpfully gives him the privacy to speak with Miraak off to one side, just out of earshot. This room, like all the others, is too warm for his liking, and he mops his brow with the back of his arm as he approaches, “Aren’t you hot at all? You’re built for cold weather and you’re wearing three layers. I assume the mask isn’t comfortable either.”

“It is not ideal,” Miraak says, as opposed to admitting that he is in fact much too hot. He also makes no mention of taking the mask off at all, not that Chry really expected him to. “I can endure. The conversation with Lucien is keeping my mind off it.”

A nice lead into the main thing he wanted to bring up. His tone is tentative, keeping an eye for any non-verbal reactions: “And that’s… alright? I know he’s asking a lot of questions. Do you need him to stop?”

He gets a head-shake, which. Well. That is a pretty obvious non-verbal reaction. “I do not mind. It is a pleasant _tinvaak_.”

_Tinvaak_. Alright, so Miraak does enjoy conversing like a dragon does. That’s… good. He was worried that Miraak wouldn’t warm to his companions what with being an unspeakably ancient dragon priest and all, so them striking up a camaraderie is a win, surely.

“ _Silgron,_ ” Miraak intones, startling him from his thoughts, “You look troubled. What is on your mind?”

“What? Oh nothing, I mean, nothing much. I’m just-” he sighs, “I’m a bit hot and bothered. And dwemer ruins are claustrophobic, and hard to navigate, and they tend to be filled with floor traps. There’s a lot to think about.”

The priest regards him thoughtfully, “I see. You are probably hungry as well. Come, let us join the others.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one reminding you to eat?” Chrysanthe half-jokes, but follows Miraak back to the other two, who are comparing rations.

Lucien gives him an imploring look as he approaches, “Tell me you brought some normal food, Chry? My bread has gone all soggy in the heat and everything Teldryn brought has ash yams in it.”

Miraak makes an interested noise, “Does that include that grey stew? I will have some.”

“As a matter of fact,” Teldryn answers very loudly over Chrysanthe and Lucien’s twin gasps of disbelief, “I picked some up in Windhelm. Here you go,” and passes over a flask of what Chry can only describe as a serious affront to food.

“You’re not serious,” he says, incredulous even as Miraak unlids the flask and an unmistakably ashy smell coils in the air, “Tell me you’re doing that to be polite. You’re just making him feel better because the rest of us hate his food.”

“Mmn,” Miraak replies lightly as he pushes his mask back - just enough to reveal his mouth - so he can have a spoonful of the grey goop, “Subtle and complex.”

He scoffs, then opts to squint at Teldryn, “You’ve put skooma in it, then. Something addictive.”

“Sorry boss, can’t hear you over the sound of me winning this argument.”

“It’s alright Chry, _I_ still have working taste buds,” Lucien consoles, patting him on the arm. “So, other food…?”

He’d been meaning to share the wonderful world of crostatas with Miraak, but on account of him finding his own (terrible) food he halves it with Lucien instead. They tuck into respective meals, but it isn’t long before Lucien suddenly perks up, “Oh, that reminds me! There’s a colleague of mine back in the Imperial City who was interested in historical culinary trends and I know she’d love a factual account of merethic era dishes. Do you remember much about what you ate back in the day?”

In his peripheral he thinks he sees Miraak’s head tilt towards him, but he can’t be sure - by the time he’s returned the look the atmoran has turned his attention towards Lucien again, “I can tell you. You may find the answers uninformative though, I rarely cooked for myself.”

“Any information is some information! Hold on, let me just get some more paper…”

_Will you let him eat in peace,_ Chrysanthe nearly says, but reels it in at the last moment. He knows Lucien can’t help being curious; it’s not every day one can question a historical figure on topics barely documented outside of fiction. He’s still a little worried Miraak is going to snap at him to be quiet but there’s no sign of annoyance so far, and Miraak has outright told him he’s fine with answering… so there’s no need for him to intervene on his behalf, right? He’s simply overthinking things. The heat isn’t helping, nor are his upcoming nerves at finally going to Blackreach after all this time.

He’s just on edge, that’s all.

That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a disclaimer I am currently VERY ENTHUSIASTIC about this story hence the frequent updates. Enjoy while it lasts!
> 
> As a side note on Faralda: I’ve inadvertently merged her and Naiya’s personalities I think, but they’re both snotty high elves and not that distinct from each other. Faralda is the destruction magic trainer, Naiya is a scholar.
> 
> Also Chrysanthe is gently nudging Miraak onto what he feels the right path but I don’t think he’s realised that Miraak is doing the same thing to him...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains smut! It’s also longer than usual. Because, well, smut. Enjoy!

His hand hovers over the final door.

Next to him, Lucien gives a wistful smile, “Feels like a long time coming, doesn’t it?”

“To say how long I’ve known about this place and never dared to go inside, yes.” And now they’re finally here. They’re going to Blackreach to find an elder scroll - _the_ elder scroll that will help him defeat Alduin and quite literally save the world. And the reason he delayed in coming sooner, the older and more confident Dragonborn he needed to support him in doing this, is finally at his side. Or well, a few paces behind him, because the doorway is only so large. With an inhaled breath, he pushes it open and heads on through… and steps out into something quite unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

A large cave, that’s what he expected. A half-ruined city sprawl of dwemer buildings perhaps. And Blackreach is both of those things, but nowhere in his scarce references to the place was it mentioned it would look like _this_. A vast subterranean garden of bioluminescent mushrooms, the likes of which he’s come across before in a few falmer-inhabited pits, but never like this - _enormous_ , gently swaying as though underwater, and giving off enough light to bathe everything in tones of blue. He can see more fungus encrusted all the way up the cave walls, along with the strangest bright blue stone threaded through the dark rock like a geode. This carries on all the way up to the ceiling, which he must tip his head all the way back to see, where thousands - millions maybe - of crystals glitter back at him. It both is and isn’t like looking at the night sky, and it has him utterly mesmerised.

“You know,” he breathes, not able to keep the reverence from his voice, “I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”

“I can’t believe this is real,” he hears Lucien whisper, “And that I’m _here_ and seeing it with my own eyes.”

Even Miraak’s voice is hushed, “I have seen nothing like this before.”

Something new for the 4,000 year-old atmoran. He doesn’t quite fail to hide his smile at that. This place is amazing and he’s almost sorry to have not come sooner, but there’s something special about sharing his first sight of it with all his companions, and especially Miraak. Their elbows brush as the priest comes to stand beside him, and something about even this tiny gesture gives him a sense of… peace, perhaps. Relief that he has someone at his side, to stop him from feeling overwhelmed - and it is very easy to feel overwhelmed by all of this. Of course Lucien and Teldryn are here as well and he doesn’t mean to discount them, but they can’t quite shoulder the burden in the same way that another Dragonborn can.

Those thoughts are distracted when he notices something drifting and twinkling in the air in front of them - snow? But he reaches out and catches some, which immediately dissipates it into a fine powder. “Are these… spores?”

“I’d be careful about breathing that stuff in boss,” Teldryn comments. There’s a lingering note of awe in his voice too but he’s always been quite practical-minded, “Wrap a scarf around your face maybe?”

Being near these sorts of glowing mushrooms hasn’t given him any ill effects before, but when there are enough spores to form a veritable fog inhaling them all day is probably not the best idea. He and Lucien acquire some makeshift scarves, which probably aren’t as good as Teldryn and Miraak’s masks, but it’ll do.

Now all that remains is to actually start exploring the place. But unlike the rigid structure of dwemer buildings he has nothing but open space in front of him and no idea which direction to go first. He can see several interesting structures silhouetted in the teal spore-mist, but that doesn’t help him make his mind up. “I’m not even sure where to start…”

“What did Septimus tell us again? Hold on, I remember writing it down after we saw him…” Lucien leafs through his notebook hurriedly, “Aha, here we go! _Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark. Alftand._ Is Tower Mzark down here you think?”

“Has to be.” Septimus might be Sheogorath levels of mad but all his insights so far have been true one way or another. “So some sort of tower structure. I think we should explore thoroughly while we’re down here though, there’s no telling what else we might find. And I assume the elder scroll isn’t going anywhere.” He doesn’t particularly want to backtrack once they have it either - getting it back to the time-wound will be the priority after that.

“First thing might be to find somewhere to rest,” Teldryn points out lightly, “By my count it’s nearing midnight.”

“Is it really?” He shouldn’t be surprised that it took them all day to get through Alftand, in retrospect. “I can see a small building over there, if that’s empty it’d make a better shelter than being out in the open.”

To his surprise it is indeed empty, the old base of an alchemist-turned-explorer, now a skeleton on the floor with several dwemer arrows sticking through its ribs unfortunately. He and Teldryn gently move the remains to one of the corners and cover it with a dusty old sheet. It’s just a single roomed abode and thus close sleeping quarters for all of them; he chafes a little at the lack of privacy but pitching up tents outside is asking to be ambushed by falmer so he doesn’t grumble. There’s one double bed, which Miraak claims for himself and Chrysanthe rather than offer it to someone else first - which is not very polite, but also not very surprising. Not that the bed is any more comfortable from the floor, because for reasons he can’t comprehend dwemer beds are made out of solid stone. He suffers through a poor night’s sleep that even Miraak’s presence next to him doesn’t particularly assuage.

-

It’s said poor night’s sleep that he blames on his mood the next day. The four of them start exploring the wondrous caverns of Blackreach, going between any still-intact dwemer sites: a water-pumping station, a market now laid empty, a spider-infested tower no-one really wants to look around but do anyway. Lucien is at any given point during the day on the verge of collapsing out of excitement, which Chrysanthe normally finds quite endearing. What’s less endearing is that he’s _still_ in fervent discussion with Miraak about just about anything related to the merethic era. Not even specifically about the atmoran people: he has more questions about snow elves, and dwemer, and the other continents, and did he read up about this topic while he was in Apocrypha? And what about this one? And this one-

“Lucien,” Chrysanthe sighs eventually, cutting the imperial off mid-flow, “Your voice is carrying _quite far_ and we keep drawing in falmer. Quiet for just a little while, please.”

“Right! Sorry, I didn’t realise I was being loud, I’ll tone it down,” is the still-too-loud whispered reply. And then he turns back to Miraak, “-Anyway, did you ever come across any more writings on her? I’ve always wondered how factual _The Real Barenziah_ really was…”

He lets it keep going for a bit and it’s not loud, or it’s not any louder than the four of them traversing already is, but it’s just this constant low-level chatter in the background. Is Miraak annoyed? Surely he must be annoyed. But he doesn’t sound it and Chrysanthe can’t work out why. He likes conversing this much? Chry doesn’t speak with him half as much as this. He’s pretty sure Lucien has said more to Miraak in the past day than he has in his week’s recovery.

“ _Lucien,_ ” he snaps eventually, “The talking is too distracting, please stop.”

Lucien looks a bit taken aback, “I - uh - alright? I’m being as quiet as I can. Should I stay further back?”

Chrysanthe is aware everyone’s stopped to look at him. His stomach twists anxiously, Alright, that came out abrupter than he wanted. “No, just - can we keep questions to break times? I’m struggling to concentrate with the noise and I really don’t want anything to get the drop on us. Please, just… no talking.”

Lucien mumbles a chastised affirmative. But without his chatter it’s suddenly much too quiet, what with neither Miraak nor Teldryn being much for idle conversation. Chry is aware the awkward silence that’s befallen him is his fault but he - somewhat crossly - reminds himself that he already warned Lucien several times about keeping it down.

He must be wearing something of a thunderous expression, because Teldryn draws close enough to nudge him with his elbow. “What’s wrong boss?” he mutters, too quiet for the others to hear.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Chry replies sternly. He gets a pointed silence for that, so he sighs, “…I didn’t mean to tell him off, but he _is_ distracting me. And Miraak, I brought him down here so he could help me tackle the dangers and they’re too busy chatting.”

“Get him to come up front with you? I can stay back with Lucien.”

He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably, “Feels a bit forced. He’s been waiting to talk to Miraak for ages and I don’t want to stop that, but it’s been non-stop.” Another sigh. “I’m just tired. And on-edge about the elder scroll stuff.”

Teldryn gives a _hmm_ , which in his uniquely croaky voice comes out sounding somewhere between thoughtful and threatening. “Let me drop back. I’ll get the big guy to take point with you-”

“ _No_ , Teldryn,” he says firmly. He doesn’t need to make this situation even more awkward than it already is, “I told you I’m tired. And I’m fine with Miraak at the back, he can keep an eye for ambushes from there. Just so long as he’s actually watching and not answering a million questions.”

Another silence. He doesn’t elect to justify himself any further.

He’s therefore a little surprised when Teldryn gives a dissatisfied noise, “Alright, I’m not really sure how to say this nicely, so I guess I’ll just say it. Are you jealous of Miraak and Lucien?”

He waves a hand. Miraak’s possessive tendencies can raise eyebrows, he expected Teldryn to question it eventually, “No, Miraak’s not jealous, not properly. I’ve talked about it with him before.”

“I’m sure he’s not boss, but that wasn’t the question I asked you.”

He frowns, goes back over what was just said. Is Miraak jealous - no, wait-

Is _he_ jealous of-?!

 _What?!_ No he’s not. “No I’m not,” he says at once, “Of course I’m not. Why would I be jealous?”

“You’ll have to tell me boss, because I’m not sure I understand it. You know this is Lucien, right? Our Lucien, the one who can’t finish _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ because he gets too embarrassed.”

“Yes, which is precisely why I’m not jealous!” he whispers back semi-frantically. Divines he had this exact same conversation with Miraak yesterday! And explained to him that Lucien was no cause for jealousy, so why is how now being accused of the same thing? “I can’t be upset at something if there’s nothing to be upset over, can I?”

Teldryn holds up both hands, “I’m calling it as I see it. And what _I_ see is that every time those two get chummy you start shushing them.”

“For reasons I have already explained. I’m tired and stressed. And that’s it, alright?”

“Fine, fine. Forget I said anything.”

“I will,” he mutters in response, petulant.

He doesn’t.

-

If Lucien is feeling slighted by Chrysanthe’s earlier telling off it fades by the time they stop for a break; fairly typical, the imperial has never been one for sour feelings. He concedes to eating his bread while Teldryn introduces Miraak to some sort of baked ash yam monstrosity, and over the course of eating the conversation strikes up again as though it had never been shushed before.

“-So I was thinking about all the music lost to the ages and thought a song book could be a really good idea! Religious hymns, celebration songs, funeral songs, children’s songs, anything really!” Lucien says, gesturing wildly with bread hunk in hand. He’s taken about two bites so far, “What do you think?”

Miraak makes an inquisitive noise, “I do not remember many children’s songs but I can recall a few ceremonial ones. But the lyrics of atmoran songs are malleable, because they were never written down anywhere - most of the populace were illiterate and learned through spoken word. The words inevitably changed when passed from person to person.”

“Oh, I’d never thought of that! I wonder how best to do it then…” Lucien snaps his fingers suddenly, “I could write the notes! I don’t really play any instruments - or not _well_ haha - but I can read music, so I could transcribe it if you, I don’t know, hum the tune for me? Or sing - now that I think about it you’re probably good at singing, aren’t you? You know I’m a hobbyist singer myself, I’d love some sort of duet.”

Chrysanthe has finished his food, which only comes to light when he realises he’s dug several gouges into the bottom of his soup-flask with his spoon. He frowns down at his right hand as though it’s somehow betrayed him, and carefully lets the spoon go. A tension-ache runs through his fingers, like he’s been holding on far too tight.

This is ridiculous. And nothing to do with Lucien. He’s just… generically wound up. Teldryn has it all wrong.

“Something to discuss in future perhaps…” is Miraak’s reply but it’s a little distracted, and his gaze is turned towards Chrysanthe as he packs his flash away, “Time to resume, _silgron_?”

Lucien looks at the bread in his hand like he’s only just remembered it, “Oh sorry, I’ve barely eaten!”

“You’ll have to eat as we walk then,” Chrysanthe says quietly. The words are surly in his head but he’s doing his level best not to snap again, so he keeps the tone subdued. Unfortunately that makes it sound somewhat frosty, but he tries not to pay it too much mind as he finishes packing up. “Come on, let’s go.”

He’s already feeling disgruntled, mostly at himself, somewhat at Teldryn. This isn’t improved when Miraak joins him at the front, and he gives a grumbled sound, “You’d be better off at the back.”

“The mercenary will cover it,” Miraak answers easily. “Besides, the _tinvaak_ has continued long enough, yes? Now I will walk with you instead.”

He feels no warmth or satisfaction at the prospect. _Aha_ , a part of him thinks vehemently, _So it isn’t me being jealous or I’d be happy right now, wouldn’t I?_

Then he feels bad, for thinking that way. He averts his gaze, looking at the floor instead. He can see in his peripheral that Miraak’s head is tipped towards him, attention focused, but he doesn’t say anything. Nor should he have to - Chrysanthe is the one who’s acted out of sorts today. He eventually tries to broach the topic: “You were enjoying the _tinvaak_. I shouldn’t have cut it short.”

Miraak is quiet for a moment longer, before speaking, “You hide your true feelings very well. Every other question I looked your way to see if you seemed unhappy and you were not, so I kept talking. I would have stopped sooner if I had known.”

“I’m not unhappy,” he mutters unhappily, “I had a bad night’s sleep on that godsawful stone bed, that’s all.”

“I know you did, you also kept me awake,” is the even - if pointed - response. “Did we not speak of this only the other day? About jealousy with no basis?”

They did. And Miraak put it down as a Dragonborn thing, but Chrysanthe is pretty sure it’s a Miraak-was-a-dragon-priest-who-could-have-anything-he-wanted thing. It was a different era wherein the priests mimicked the behaviour of the dragons, and that’s why Miraak is so possessive. He very nearly points that out, something in him clamouring for an argument, but he reels it in at the last second. Why is he even debating this? He knows he’s right. “I’m not jealous. I’ve never been jealous over anything, ever.”

“You defy the stereotype in many ways, but you still have a dragon-soul, like it or not.”

“ _What_ stereotype?” he retorts at last, exasperated. It’s rising to the bait - is it bait? - but he does it anyway, “You act like you knew all the Dragonborn after you personally, but everything you’ve said is based on _your_ personality. Your quirks don’t apply to me.”

It’s at this point that Lucien (who can’t argue) would concede with an _I’m sorry, you’re probably right_ , and Teldryn (who’d rather not argue) would back off with an _alright, fine._ But unfortunately this is Miraak, who can and will argue: “They apply to you far more than you are willing to admit. Did we not speak about stamping down on envy and how it makes it worse?”

“There’s no envy to stamp down on,” he snaps, “All I asked for was some peace and quiet for five minutes and everyone assumes I’ve gone full dragon! I’m. Just. Tired. That’s it!”

“How many days have you spent being Just Tired?” is the sharp reply, “How many nights have you huddled in the corner of a ruin, or even forgone sleep altogether because there was nowhere safe to rest? This isn’t the first hard surface you’ve slept on, is it? Did any of those nights make you so short-tempered the next day?” And before Chry can retort - though admittedly he doesn’t have a great answer in mind - Miraak presses onwards, dominating the argument: “Do not dismiss my insight as personal nonsense. I have had four thousand years to get acquainted with my own soul, and I was attendant to the dov before that. I know an angry dovah when I see one.”

“I can hear you arguing from back here,” Teldryn calls out idly.

Both of them stop and turn in unison to Teldryn, who to his credit stays unfazed - Lucien on the other hand gives a little _eep!_ at the sudden intensity. But the interruption does cut their argument short; both he and Miraak end up glancing warily at each other before reaching some unspoken agreement to end the fight, or perhaps just continue it later without an audience. What did Miraak say, when dragon fights came to a conclusion? _And both dovah would sulk for a time_. It feels a little bit to Chry like that’s what they’re doing, but he doesn’t try to resume. Even if he is feeling a bit slighted.

-

The day’s exploring comes to a close with much of Blackreach still to uncover. They do stumble across a place that Miraak informs him is the war quarters, translating the dwemeris sign - Lucien makes excited noises when he does so and tries sparking a discussion on the dwemer language, only to be disappointed when Miraak brushes him off. Chrysanthe feels a little guilty at that, because _he’s_ the reason Miraak now won’t engage so freely in conversation. But then Miraak is the one who assumed Chrysanthe’s jealousy - Chry still disagrees. A better night’s rest will resolve his black mood.

But to digress. The war quarters seems to be a barracks of sorts, making it an ideal place to hole up for the night (if it is indeed night, he can’t really tell down here). There’s also a separate upstairs bedroom for what might have been a commanding officer, and characteristically Miraak takes this for himself and directs the other two towards the barracks. Briefly, moodily, he considers letting Miraak have that large bed all to himself, but eventually must admit to himself that he’s being petty. He’s calmed down a little since earlier; it would seem Miraak has as well, for when they’re finally alone he doesn’t immediately turn to pick up where their fight left off, as Chry thought he might.

No words at all in fact as he reaches up to take off his mask. The entirety of him is covered in a fine layer of blue spore-dust that must be brushed off, but it seems to have clung to the mask in particular, dulling the weathered gold. Chrysanthe watches as he wipes it clean with a spare bit of cloth, expecting him to put it back on afterwards. In the entire time they’ve been with Lucien and Teldryn he’s not taken it off except for pushing it upwards the bare minimum needed to eat, and even that is a brief and brisk affair. He even slept with it on yesterday, which entailed him lying unmoving on his back. But once the mask has regained its shine he simply places it within arm’s reach and comes to sit on the side of the stone bed instead, next to Chrysanthe, and waits for the elf to finish removing his armour.

“ _Silgron_ , there is something I wish to tell you,” he says when Chry is done, “Will you hear me out without interruption?”

While he doesn’t much like the idea of Miraak once again presuming exactly what Chry is feeling, he does recognise that the tone - and the use of _will you_ as opposed to _you will_ \- is as close to a peace offering as Miraak gets. So he nods, and stays quiet while Miraak speaks:

“When I am around you, I become… different. A part of me wishes to keep you all to myself. Another part of me wants to see everyone acknowledge your greatness. It is often contradictory and difficult to categorise, but what I _can_ tell you is that I have never felt this way before. Not about anyone.” He says that first sentence towards the room at large but then his head turns to Chrysanthe sat next to him, inky-black eyes roving across the altmer’s form. He’s used to intense, smoldering sorts of looks from Miraak - particularly as when he’s unmasked it tends to be a prelude to some manner of intimacy - but now his gaze is merely studious, and quietly appreciative. Which seems all the stranger given what he references next: “In the hot springs, when you bared your neck to me, I nearly lost control of myself altogether. No other lover has done that to me. Even at my most passionate, I have never felt so _primal._ ”

Despite his lingering wariness of further arguments he feels a heat spread across his cheeks as well. Miraak’s turn of phrase is rarely coy. It wouldn’t be out of place in a romance novel. But Miraak bade him not to speak, so he doesn’t.

And then, of course, he takes it up a notch: “Sometimes it feels… as though you call on the deepest and darkest parts of my soul, that which I have never willingly shown anyone. You call me, and I answer.” It’s spoken with no small amount of trepidation, as though Miraak himself is hesitant about this phenomenon. “I believe that this is my _dovahsil_ , my very core, that surges forth in response to yours. In that moment I become less of a man and more of a dragon. Sometimes this is wonderful, and other times it is dangerous and must be carefully navigated - as was the case at the hot springs.”

“The point I am getting to,” he continues, “Is that if you can do that to me, have you considered that I can do it to you? Not knowingly or deliberately - but that simply by being near me, I would bring out the dovah in you? That you would find yourself behaving in ways strange and unusual for you. That parts of yourself that lay dormant would suddenly be provoked?”

That’s obviously his cue to answer. But he’s not sure what to say or do, except fidget on the spot. “This is your explanation for my supposed jealousy, then?”

“I think a bad night’s sleep is contributing, but you and I both know something is amiss. Your soul is restless,” the priest murmurs, “But your soul is not that of a mortal, my _silgron_. It won’t be soothed by calm thoughts and words alone. It wants action, resolution. The longer you leave it, the more it will take to satiate it. So I propose we do something about it now before this gets out of hand.”

“But it’s-” he stops, bites his lip. “I don’t think-” Damn it, he’s not even saying what he’s trying to say. He tries again. “I can’t be jealous. There’s literally no reason. It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“It does not have to make sense, _Dovahkiin_ , it simply is,” Miraak says almost gently, “Let me prove it to you. Do as I instruct and we will see if it soothes your soul. If it does not then we will think again on the reason.”

“…Fine,” he sighs. He has nothing to lose - if it works that’s good and if it doesn’t work then he was right and Miraak was wrong and that’s also good. “What should I do?”

Miraak moves to face him properly, one long leg folded across the bed. His fingers move to the elaborate gold buckle at his waist, through which the sash of his robes is threaded, and pulls the tie loose. Chry raises an eyebrow, somewhere between sardonic thoughts of _Sex, really, that’s your plan?_ and altogether more hopeful thoughts of _Actually I wouldn’t mind_. He ignores the latter and clears his throat softly: “I’m, ah, flattered, but not sure this is the time or the place.” In the middle of a dwemer ruin. Not the most romantic of settings.

A smirk plays about Miraak’s lips, “Tempting, but not quite what I am offering. I meant this-” And he looses his robes, but only from the waist upwards so the gold-threaded garments fall loose about his shoulders. He has a thinner undershirt beneath which he also unbuttons, then tugs aside to reveal the bare, pale-skinned junction of his neck and shoulders. The sight is oddly mesmerising, perhaps because Miraak is usually either fully dressed or fully naked, not somewhere between the two. Chry only realises he’s staring when the next words break him from reverie: “It is an offer to… mark me. As I did to you in the hot springs.”

He blinks, not quite processing what he’s just heard. “Wait, you want me to _bite_ you?”

“You could scratch me if you preferred. The method is less important, it is about leaving a mark.”

“I - wha - uh,” he stumbles, not even sure what to say. It’s not that he finds the idea abhorrent, just _bizarre._ Biting will help? Well yes he can see that for a dragon it’s an aggressive show of dominance thing. But Chry is neither aggressive nor dominant and the entire thing just seems so… unlike him. He can confidently claim he’s never had any notion to _bite_ anyone before. “And that - really? That will - _really?_ ”

Miraak sighs and reaches out to grasp at his fidgeting hands, “ _Silgron_ , I suggest this because I think it will help. Try it at least once.”

Well obviously it’s because he thinks it’ll help. He can’t think of any other reason Miraak would suggest this given he’s more the type to do the biting. It occurs to him that Miraak probably had to talk _himself_ into this idea as well and to that end he comes around to the idea; if Miraak is willing to offer, he’s willing to give it a go. “Alright, I’ll try. Let me just, ah…”

They end up in a position where he’s half kneeling over his counterpart, hands braced on his shoulders. The skin under his fingers is so warm, faintly marred with old scars and ink-trickles, and their chests press together as he leans in to brush his mouth on Miraak’s neck. He can just about feel the steady thump of his pulse, beating a little faster than normal, confirming his suspicion that Miraak might be more nervous about this than he’s letting on. But he doesn’t say anything, just breathes steadily as he waits for Chrysanthe to make the first move. How _does_ he go about making the first move? Obviously he doesn’t want to bite into his jugular or anything so… lower down? Maybe? He thinks back to the hot springs and being on the receiving end of an impulsive bite; he bled, but not much. Aiming for roughly the same place he opens his mouth and tentatively presses his teeth to skin.

Miraak is conveniently next to his ear when he murmurs: “Harder.”

It takes actual conscious effort to do so, and something in him still holds back. What if he hurts him? What if he inflicts some terrible injury? What if-

He hears Miraak go _tch._ Strong arms curl around him to drag him in closer, and a hand squeezes the back of his neck as if in _warningthreatdominationfight-_

He bites. He feels the break of skin under his teeth - hears a hissed inhale from Miraak - tastes the copper on his tongue-

He reels back at once, eyes wide and thoughts wild, “Ah! Sorry! Did I - I didn’t mean - Divines you’re bleeding-” There’s blood on Miraak’s skin and on Chrysanthe’s lips and his tongue and that was _him_ , _he_ did that. “I’m so sorry, let me heal-”

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” Miraak says, strangely raspy but no less exasperated. He bats the altmer’s hands away and presses his own fingers to the bite. Chry sees the faint glow of healing magic but he doesn’t mend it all the way, just enough to stop the bleeding. The skin underneath remains marred by a distinct imprint of Chry’s teeth, and the area all around it is flushed an angry red.

“That’ll bruise,” Chry mumbles. “I suppose that’s the point?”

“That is the point,” the other agrees. He looks Chry over carefully, “You went from reluctance to action very swiftly. Did your instincts take over?”

“Yes. Maybe? I’m not sure,” he settles on. “It was your, um… your hand. On the back of my neck.”

He’s no sooner said it when he feels warm fingers once again settle at his nape. Miraak’s voice drops an octave, “Like this?”

He swallows thickly. He can still taste blood in his mouth. He should stop. They should stop. But he can’t stop thinking about that hand on the back of his neck, rubbing, caressing. _Possessing._ He could possess as well, push back. Bite back.

Miraak’s voice is so low, skirting the edge of a growl. “Again, _Dovahkiin_.” And he _squeezes._

And Chrysanthe bites.

It’s not that he’s not aware of what he’s doing, or that something else is holding the reins. Whatever’s inside him, it’s not a separate entity as such. It’s more like… in that moment, all he can think about is biting down and laying claim to something. Especially when that something is ancient and powerful, recognisably more powerful than he is but it’s showing vulnerability so he must take take _take_. And when he’s done taking he pulls back, breathing hot and ragged against the skin. It takes a moment to collect his thoughts, currently swirling in a dazed muddle of _more_ and _mine._

Miraak is panting as well, huffing sharp breaths against his ear. He seems… fine? His hand is still curled around the back of Chrysanthe’s neck, albeit no longer squeezing, but still resting there. Chry assumes that if he’d taken it too far Miraak would’ve shoved him off or Shouted at him or something. He does notice the other, unoccupied arm is pressed tightly to his side, the hand balled up into a fist on the stone bed, and that there’s a tremor running through his shoulders.

“Is it alright?” Chry asks. His voice comes out a lot throatier than intended; if he had all his wits about him he’d be a bit embarrassed. “Is it too much?”

“It is fine,” Miraak mutters back, “I am… exercising restraint.”

Some distant dialogue floats back to his memories: _I have not had to deny myself anything for a very long time._ It came up during telepathy if he recalls, back when Miraak struggled even with basic civility. He shook, back then, just as he shakes now. As though his body had its own will altogether, one at odds with his rational mind. “You want to fight back?”

He gets a vaguely assenting noise, “ _Submitting_ does not come naturally to me.”

Something about that makes him feel oddly… warm and satisfied. That Miraak would rail against his natural instincts, for Chry’s sake. He can’t quite keep the wonderment out of his voice as he speaks: “But you’re trying… just for me?”

Miraak’s eyes flick to his. In a deeper register, he repeats: “Just for you.”

It’s not the biting, Chrysanthe realises. Well, maybe the biting helps but it’s not the act itself that quietens his inner restlessness - his _dovahsil_ , if that’s really what it is. It’s the fact that Miraak will let him bite in the first place. He doesn’t have to, he doesn’t particularly _want_ to, but he’ll allow it anyway. Because it’s Chrysanthe, who is the centre of Miraak’s universe for better or worse, and what does a dragon like more than to be just that? Chrysanthe doesn’t want _domination_. He just wants _devotion_ , and Miraak will give it to him in spades.

And if he doesn’t need domination, then… “You could bite me,” he offers in a whisper, “If you wanted.”

It’s a dangerous proposition and they both know it.

Miraak is the one to voice it, strained: “A bad idea. If I start, I will not stop.”

 _Maybe I don’t want you to_. He doesn’t say it aloud, though. But a part of him wants him to, so he can see that dragon side of Miraak again. That vicious creature that only Chrysanthe can satiate.

Gods, maybe Miraak is right. Maybe they do bring it out in each other.

Coaxing Miraak to go full animal is not the best idea. If Chrysanthe is going to be thrown around the place (which is more appealing than he’ll readily admit), it should really be on a nice soft bed and not in a room comprised entirely of stone. They should do something though; there’s not a lot of point in calming Chry’s soul only to rile Miraak’s up. He has another idea, but it takes a bit of courage to actually voice it: “Another suggestion, then. A challenge, if you like.”

Miraak leans forward, eyes narrowed with interest, “Go on.”

He trails down the front of Miraak’s robes, still loosely belted at the waist. They both give an inhale when he reaches between his legs, feeling a distinct hardness under his hand. He’s not surprised - he’d have been more surprised to find Miraak _not_ hard - but these sorts of brazen touches are more the older Dragonborn’s style. But flustered as he is he’s determined to proceed: “Let me take care of this. Of you. But you have to hold still - no grabbing, or pulling, or taking over.”

Miraak’s eyebrow quirks for about half a second before his entire expression shifts into something darkly _wanton_ , enough to make Chrysanthe squirm pleasantly inside. “You are an absolute deviant.”

He smiles, a little coy. Alright, a lot coy: “Deviant? I’m a virgin.”

“Woe betide _anyone_ who thinks you are an innocent soul,” Miraak retorts, then kisses him deeply.

It’s a very grabby sort of kiss, the type where both of Miraak’s hands are clutching his face and dragging him in closer. Chrysanthe allows it, greatly enjoys it even, but as the kiss nears its end his hands clasp over Miraak’s and gently pull them away. “That wasn’t very still of you,” he admonishes without any real ire to it.

“I hadn’t accepted the challenge yet,” Miraak answers smugly. Damn him. “But I will, on a condition. I want-” here he snatches yet another kiss, this one quick and fleeting, and then murmurs against Chrysanthe’s lips, “-Your _mouth_.”

Gods, that turns the tables. Of course it does. Of course he did. But still- “F… fine,” Chrysanthe says, trying and failing to hide the stumble in the words. He’d be lying to say that hadn’t crossed his mind before now, and he feels a tingle of titillation to know it’s crossed Miraak’s mind too. “My mouth. But you have to be still, and quiet.”

Miraak gives a deliciously deep _Mmmn_ that makes his hairs rise on end, then leans back from his kiss, far back enough that he can rest against the bed’s stone headboard. He very pointedly places his arms by his sides, fingers splayed loosely against the bed. His thighs are parted and Chrysanthe moves to kneel between them, trying not to let on how hard his heart hammers in his chest.

He encounters his first obstacle quite quickly: Miraak is still mostly dressed, the robes merely tugged down at the shoulders. His breeches are still fastened and it’s usually Miraak who moves to unlace them, but now… “You said to be still,” the man intones pleasantly, staying exactly where he is.

“I know what I said,” Chrysanthe retorts, though it might be more of a mumble. He _has_ undone the trousers before actually, when he was first healing his nemesis-turned-ally, but that feels like a lifetime ago. Not to mention there’s a world of difference in the brisk, utilitarian undressing of a healer, and the careful uncovering of a lover. He finds himself shying away from the step, a long enough pause that he feels the need to justify it: “I’m deliberating.”

The most damnable smirk plays along Miraak’s mouth, “I will grow uninterested at this rate.”

“Wasn’t staying _quiet_ one of the conditions as well?” he huffs, but he’s effectively teased out of his shyness. He grasps at the breech lacing, pulling it loose in deliberate movements, and peels the garment apart until he can see pale skin beneath. His - here Chry blushes to think on the term - cock, straining but confined within the garment. Miraak’s inhale has just the slightest shudder to it when long altmer fingers curl around the girth to free it to the open air.

For his earlier admonishment Miraak has no more quips for him. Perhaps they’ve been chased away from his mind, for now when Chry glances up to meet Miraak’s eyes he only gets a heated gaze in return. Chrysanthe quickly averts his, partly from shyness, partly from avoiding being drawn into another hypnotic gaze-lock, which won’t be particularly conducive to what he’s planning to do. What Miraak asked him to do.

He shuffles back a little, so he can… lower himself. The motion feels very deliberate, very submissive. But also submissive is the way that Miraak stays still as instructed, as opposed to dragging Chrysanthe downwards, or holding him there as the man normally might. It’ll satisfy them both, Chrysanthe hopes, if Miraak gets his pleasure while Chry gets his devotion-motivated restraint. And if Miraak can’t stay restrained… well, maybe that’s not such a bad outcome either.

Despite knowing all of this he still finds himself pink-cheeked by the time he’s down there, mostly lying on his stomach with his elbows resting on top of Miraak’s thighs to prop him up a little. His too-long legs dangle off the end of the bed and in all honesty it’s not the most dignified position he’s ever been in, but he assumes being splayed out like this is a nice view for his counterpart. Nicer still is the way he’s at face level with the atmoran’s manhood, close enough that his breaths skim over the pink-tipped flesh. The slow pace thus far has absolutely _not_ led to any disinterest, though he can feel the expectant gaze from above burning into him.

Chry leans further in, eyes fluttering shut as he delivers a long and languid _lick_ from base to tip.

He wasn’t sure what taste to expect, but it’s mostly the same as licking any other part of Miraak - that is until he gets to the tip, and a bead of pre-cum finds its way onto his tongue. He’s reminded of the time he tasted Miraak’s spend before, back in Falkreath’s forests, coated fingers pushed into his mouth. The memory makes him shiver, as does the notion that he’s tasting from the source now. He leans further in, one hand grasping at the length to hold it still while he licks further at the tip, seeks more of that headily bitter taste. The tip of his tongue squirms into the slit at the cock-head and above him Miraak inhales sharply. In Chry’s peripheral he sees those splayed fingers, formerly loose and relaxed, tighten a little against the stone bed.

That’s it, that’s what he wants. To test him, to push him. He repeats the motion and is rewarded with another finger-flex, and another taste of pre-cum. If he grasps firmly at the base of Miraak’s length and drags his hand upwards he can get even more oozing from his tip, like he’s squeezing it out of him.

“ _Silgron_ ,” he hears from above him. He can’t see Miraak’s face but his hushed tone is pleasingly ragged, “Do not _tease_.”

A part of him wants to tease all night but another part is just as impatient as Miraak is. His own manhood is hard despite the lack of direct stimulation, but is trapped both inside Chrysanthe’s trousers and against the unyielding stone of the bed. He’ll deal with it later though, he has other things to focus on. Mostly giving Miraak some reprieve by arcing downwards, parting his lips, and then carefully, deliberately enveloping the head of his cock.

It’s sort of… bigger than he’s expecting, somehow. Even though he knows abstractly that Miraak is well-endowed (as one might expect from someone taller and broader than most nords) there’s a difference between feeling that girth in his hands and trying to wrap his lips around it. He's forced to open up wide, which makes a lewd act feel even lewder and has him squirming with embarrassed pleasure. Gods, it’s so… so hard and thick and, just, undeniably _masculine_. The head slides past his stretched lips and sits heavily on his tongue; once it’s there he struggles to form any coherent thought beyond how it feels, and how utterly wanton he must look.

It’s obviously a pleasing sight to Miraak, going by the laboured breathing he can hear - or perhaps it’s less to do with the sight and more to do with the wet heat encompassing him. Whatever the reason he can tell it’s testing Miraak’s self-control; he side-eyes the man’s hands and finds the fingers are now far from lax, curled claw-like against the bed. Experimentally he tries leaning in further so the shaft pushes further into his mouth. The clawed fingers curl into a fist before loosening again, accompanied by the long, not-entirely-steady exhale of someone trying to stay calm. Satisfaction coils hotly in Chrysanthe’s stomach.

He draws back, lets the head slip free of his mouth again so he can catch his breath a little - he’s quite capable of breathing through his nose but it’s surprisingly difficult when his mouth is occupied, his instinct is to simply hold his breath. His eyes fall on Miraak’s cock, now stained dark pink at its tip, and glistening wetly with Chrysanthe’s saliva. Very lewd. As soon as he has his breath back he descends again with a sort of lust-addled determination, pushing the length as far into his mouth as he can take it and delighting in the hastily-smothered groan Miraak gives in response.

Unfortunately he can’t take the length very far at all, as soon as it gets anywhere near the back of his throat his body seems to seize up, like it flatly refuses to accept any further intrusion. A part of him wants to power through it, take Miraak deeper - _can_ he do that? Can he take him… down his throat? The notion has him flustered and eager but his body won’t obey him. It gets to the point where the physical stress of his almost-gagging starts to outweigh his pleasure and he pulls back, gasping in breathless frustration.

Above him he hears a low laugh. He glances up and meets Miraak’s eyes, finding them utterly smoldering, but something about the expression is also quite fond. “That’s a practised skill,” Miraak tells him in tones nothing less than _sultry_ , “One I would like to see you master. But don’t focus too much on it now.” Sultriness slinks into covetousness as Miraak admires his form, prostrate and vulnerable. He smiles with just a hint of teeth, eyes glittering in the dark, “Though watching you _try_ is very, very pleasing.”

Chry’s thoughts are a little too scattered to provide any sort of eloquent reply to that, so he simply gives an assenting sort of groan and leans in to start fervently licking again. Focusing mostly around the sensitive underside of the head but then also all the way down the shaft to the base, then back up again with open-mouthed kisses. He’s sure there’s absolutely no finesse to it but Miraak’s composure erodes all the same, fingers curling back into fists by his side. By the time Chrysanthe takes the tip back into his mouth he can _see_ Miraak’s arms shaking with the need to move, grab, grip, have.

But doesn’t. Because Chrysanthe told him not to.

It’s a delirious sort of power trip. One that fuels his lust as he sucks _hard_ and Miraak finally gasps out: “ _More_ , I need more or _zu'u fen ni thaarn_. Use your hand on me…”

So swiftly the power balance returns to Miraak but Chry doesn’t mind, nor does he deny him. The hand he was using to grip and squeeze at the base of his length begins stroking up and down. It’s another act he’d not consider himself particularly dexterous or skilled at but between haphazard strokes and the very enthusiastic, very _wet_ attention of his mouth he sees Miraak’s fingers scrabble against the stone, feels the tremble that runs through the man’s core. His thighs are squeezing against Chrysanthe’s shoulders, hips twitching with barely-aborted thrusts, cock pulsing-

He sees the white-knuckled hands move at the last minute. One goes (he thinks) to clap across Miraak’s mouth, muffling a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl. The other curls around the back of Chrysanthe’s head, fingers tangling deep in his hair and holds him there - doesn’t hold him _down_ , or force him to take any more of the length than he already has, but definitely abolishes any chance of pulling away. As such there’s no retreat when he feels his mouth filled with spend, hot and bitter and sticky. There’s an excess of it and he instinctively swallows before he realises the implications, subsequently going even redder in the face when he feels the viscous liquid run down his throat.

Gods, he just - he just-

He’s nearly mindless with arousal. With a strained whimper he tries reaching down to his own manhood, but between lying on his stomach and being trapped between Miraak’s legs it’s impossible to access.

It’s not a problem he has for long. The cock slips free of his mouth with a wet sound but he barely has time to cough before he’s quite literally hauled upwards, barely registering that it’s Miraak doing so. Their mouths smash together, tongue pushed past his lips, Miraak’s tongue, tasting his own spend. Chrysanthe gives a dazed moan, which swiftly turns into a keening cry when a hand shoves down the front of his breeches and firmly wraps around his neglected length. Fortuitously the sound is absorbed into the forceful kiss, as opposed to travelling down the stone-lined halls to traumatise his companions.

“ _Miraak_ ,” he practically wheezes when their mouths break apart, too breathless to give the name any substance. The grip on him is so tight and vigorous and _good_. “I won’t la- _ahh-h-h_ …st…”

It’s less than a minute, he thinks. When his world has stopped fizzing he’s breathless and boneless in Miraak’s arms, and he’s pretty sure he’s ruined the inside of his breeches. His only consolation is that Miraak looks as much of a mess as Chrysanthe feels: his robes are in utter disarray, the entire area between his neck and shoulder is just splotchy purple bite marks and his expression is one of bliss-addled exhaustion. He withdraws his hand, coated in Chrysanthe’s cum, and doesn’t even have the presence of mind to sultrily lick it clean afterwards. The two of them just sort of flop into horizontal positions and lay curled up together until conscious thought returns.

“I should just like to point out that you didn’t win my challenge,” Chry tells Miraak, or specifically Miraak’s chest which he currently has his nose pressed up against.

“You are lucky I did not flip you over and have my way with you,” is the reply, thick with almost-sleep, “You have some very seductive ideas for someone with no experience.”

“Inspiring subject matter,” he yawns, and has a tickle of amusement at the pleased noise his compliment earns him. “Mmn. I should change into something less… sticky.”

“ _Ruz vu_ ,” Miraak rumbles drowsily into his hair. Chrysanthe doesn’t know the words but can guess at the meaning.

_Tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Zu'u fen ni thaarn_ \- I will not obey (the gist of the full sentence being, ‘give me more or I won’t obey you’).  
>  _Ruz vu_ \- literally ‘next dawn’ but used to mean, as Chry guessed, ‘tomorrow’.
> 
> -
> 
> I wrote the biting scene with the intention of no smut and quickly realised yeah, that wasn’t going to work. It made the chapter a whopping 8.5k though!


End file.
